#its fulfilling and blissful when the three of them are together

[gunstellations]

gentle mornings

[lannister-rose]

Duty Ends Where Love Starts - Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary: Sweethearts since childhood, you and Aegon were always meant to be together, but when duty, love, and political rivalry all clash together, you both find yourselves in loveless marriages with other people. After an argument breaks out between your husband, Aemond, and his brother you seek to help mend the issue. When you find yourself in Aegon's chambers alone with only him, suppressed emotions bubble their way to the surface.

Warnings: Reader is Rhaenyra's daughter, Slight Aemond x Reader (One Sided), Infidelity, Heavy emphasis on infidelity, Targcest (Uncle and Niece), Arranged marriages, Smut, P in V sex, Creampie, Mentions of pregnancy, use of Moon Tea, Minors Do Not Interact (MDNI)

Word Count: 2.9k

You were three and ten when Aegon kissed you for the first time in the library of the Red Keep while you were both supposed to be studying. It was your first kiss, and his, too; neither of you knowing what to do as your lips met each other's. It was clumsy and awkward, lasting only a few seconds, but it felt like a bliss-filled eternity before you pulled away, your cheeks burning as a deep shade of bright red covered them, you stuttering as you failed to find the right words to tell the boy who you had fallen for.

After that day you begged your mother, Rhaenyra, to speak with your Grandsire about having you wed to Aegon when you both came of age, telling her that you'd never have another take your hand in marriage. Your mother honored your request, but it was Aegon's mother, the Queen Consort Alicent Hightower, who refused to betroth her eldest to you.

When the time came, you found yourself Aemond Targaryen's wife, a marriage that would prove itself to be far from fulfilling. Aemond loved you, as he claimed, but the feelings were far from reciprocated, even as you spent more time with him over the years. He wasn't Aegon. Still, duty always called to those who held it, and you were his wife by law.

"Where is Aegon?" Your Grandsire, Viserys, questioned one night over supper, looking around the table for his son. "Do any of you know where he is?" He asked again, looking to the fellow members of your family for any insight. You had to admit, you were curious, too. It wasn't like him to miss supper, especially not when his favorite wine was being served.

"He and I had an argument," Your husband answered from beside you, the traces of a smug smirk on his face as he glanced over at you. "He had some choice words regarding my Lady Wife and I, and I made sure to put him in his place." You raised a brow at the information, unable to feign disinterest any longer. "My elder brother is likely sulking in his room right now as any child would." You watched as Alicent shot him a look, a warning to her son not to bring further drama to the already tense table.

"You two have been at each other's throats since we were children, Aemond." You stated plainly, standing up from your seat. "I do not wish to hear of your bickering with him, not at supper." You moved, heading towards the room's entrance. "I've lost my appetite, please excuse me."

You left, moving through the halls and towards Aegon's chambers. It had been your job since you were young to be your uncles' mediator, helping mend, or at least calm them both after their arguments. This one would be no different. You didn't bother knocking on the door once you were at his room, quickly dismissing the guards before stepping in.

He sat at his desk, staring down into a cup of wine with a mix of irritation and what looked to be a hint of hurt on his face as he swirled the dark liquid around in its cup. His deep purple eyes turned upwards to look at you briefly as you entered before returning down, the prince not bothering to react much to your sudden intrusion into his chambers.

"Has anyone ever taught you it's rude to barge into someone else's chambers without knocking first, Lady Velaryon?" He asked, the statement more of a playful jab than a question, even despite his slightly annoyed tone of voice.

"You and Aemond fought, and I hear it involved me, Uncle." You said, skipping straight to the point as you grabbed a spare chair from elsewhere in the room and pulled it up to the desk, sitting next to Aegon. "My husband said you had some 'choice words' regarding him and myself, may I ask what you said?"

Aegon set his cup down, finally looking at you fully. "I was drunk and said some things I should not have said; that is all that happened between him and me." He confessed, and you knew he was only speaking half of the truth, the half you already knew.

"Really? Is that all? Then why have you isolated yourself to your room then?" You pried, determined to get to the bottom of the issue. "What did you say, Aegon?"

Your uncle looked away, refusing to meet your gaze and you two fell into silence for a long moment, the prince trying to decide what he would say. "Do you ever know what our lives would be like if we had been wed to each other? If all the pleading we had done hadn't fallen on the deaf ears of our mothers?" He turned his head back up, looking at you with eyes swirling deep with conflicted emotion.

"Of course I do, Aegon." You answered simply, taking a deep breath. "But fate had other plans for us all, and we must adapt to it. Duty is scarcely something we desire." You felt your heart ache at your admission, the cruel reality of your situation sinking in once more after you'd spent years trying to bury how it made you feel.

"What do you desire?" He took your hand in his, squeezing it gently before he continued. "Are you happy with Aemond? Do you want to be with him? Has your heart begun to yearn for my brother after all these years with him?" Aegon awaited your answer, every second of your silence felt like a lifetime.

"It does not matter what I desire," You finally spoke, removing your hand from his. "I must fulfill my duty as—"

"Fuck duty." He interrupted, tone laced with bitterness. "I asked what you wanted, not what you must." He grabbed his wine, taking a long drink of it before speaking again. "I told Aemond that he didn't deserve you. That's why we argued, sweetling." The last word, filled with hate as it left his lips, felt like a sharp dagger to the chest. "My brother doesn't love you as I do, doesn't understand how much it infuriates me to hear the talk of him neglecting you while claiming to cherish you, his darling wife." Aegon's grip on his cup tightened, fingers digging into the metal.

You stood from your seat, making your way towards the door. "I think you're drunk again, Aegon. I'll see you once you've sobered up and stopped talking nonsense." Before you could leave he stood up quickly, grabbing your arm and pulling you back, flipping you around to face him. Your eyes widened as you stared back at him, and your mouth opened to scold him for what he just did.

Before you could take the chance to speak, he kissed you, lips moving with fervor against yours as he poured every emotion he ever felt for you into it. You hesitated before kissing back, melting into his touch as you relaxed, your hands resting on his shoulders as he pulled you closer, arms wrapping around your waist. It was wrong, you knew it, but emotion overpowered logic as you gave into him, tasting the fruity, almost sweet taste of wine on his lips as he kissed you.

"Aegon," You breathed out once you separated, your heart racing in your chest as you stared into his Indigo eyes filled with love and affection only he had ever shown you. You hadn't kissed him since before his wedding to Helaena so many years ago, and doing it once more after so long brought every feeling you had suppressed for him back to the surface.

"I need you to know that I'm not drunk when I say this." He paused, tenderly cupping your face in his hands. "I love you. With every part of my being. I swear it by the Gods." He leaned in further, your lips nearly touching again. "You may be Aemond's by law, but you are mine. We both know it, and we've gone too long denying it. What's stopping us from loving one another behind closed doors? What the rest of our family doesn't know will bring no harm."

You took a shaky breath at the proposition. It was a risky one should you follow through with it, but the risk made it all the more exciting to think about. Being able to be with the one you loved after so long would be worth the sneaking around, the guilt, and the shame.

"I'd kill for you, man or woman. I'd burn our house to the ground, burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash if it meant I'd be with you at the end of it all." His lips pressed against yours once more in another passion-filled kiss. You wanted him, needed him. No man had touched you in so long, not your husband, and not Aegon; you craved more of it, hungered for it like a starved animal staring at its first meal in ages.

You kissed him back with equal desire, moaning against his lips as you led him towards his bed, carefully pushing him down onto the mattress below. You straddled him, pressing up against the growing budget in his breeches as he held your hips, looking up at you with uncertainty, a rare state to see the prince in when with women.

"What's wrong, Aegon? You've bedded many women before. Don't tell me you've grown scared of them now." You teased, hands running over the expensive fabric of his dark forest green tunic.

"I've bedded whores, not the noble lady who I've loved since childhood." He corrected, letting you slip off his shirt and throw it to the stone ground below, leaving his chest bare and free for you to see and drink in the sight of. "Is it so wrong of me to wish to please you properly?"

You chuckled lightly at his words. "You're already doing better than Aemond by spending this time with me. My husband rarely has me in such a position." It was Aegon's turn to chuckle, slipping your gown off your shoulders as he did so. He watched your breasts spill out of your dress, cock hardening even further at the beautiful sight

"Gods, your beauty is unmatched." His hand found your soft breast, kneading it as you moaned lewdly, the sound like music to his ears. "Do you know how long I've yearned to hear those sounds come from you? How many nights I had spent wishing you were the one with me instead of some whore?" He pressed open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin of your chest, savoring each and every noise that escaped you.

You helped him remove your gown fully, leaving your fully nude figure on full display to your lover. He drank in the sight, the look of you being more fulfilling and delicious than any other person or thing he had ever experienced. You weren't from a brothel, nor were you Helaena or any other woman who had ever been with. You were his first and only love, and here you were in front of him, letting him do to you what he had always desired.

"You're staring, Aegon." You observed, your voice low and sultry, utterly intoxicating.

"What man wouldn't when faced with such a pretty thing?" His hands roamed your body as he smirked.

You pulled off his breeches, letting his cock spring out, the tip already leaking small translucent pearls of precum from the excitement of it all. You bit your lip as you realized how big he was. You'd struggle to take him. You stroked him slowly, bringing your hand up and down his thick length. Aegon watched through half-lidded violet eyes as you touched him, a groan of your name leaving his lips. Then you placed his cock, hard and ready, at your entrance, sinking down onto it, struggling to hold back a loud moan as you did so.

"I've wanted this for so long. I've wanted you." Aegon's hands grabbed at your hips as you began to bring yourself up and down, riding his cock. You felt like no other woman he had ever been with; to him, you were perfection. For the first time in his life he was overwhelmed by sex, the emotions he held for you combined with the feeling of the velvety walls of your cunt wrapped around him combined in a way that had his head blissfully empty except for the thought of you.

"Kiss me." The words sounded more desperate than he intended, but that's what he was: desperate. The prince had never been one to kiss when he did these things, but he had gone years without you, and he'd be damned if he didn't take all you had to offer, savoring it as he did.

You listened to him, leaning down, your body pressing up against his as your lips moved together sloppily. Aegon gripped your hips tighter, beginning to thrust his own upwards, driving his cock deep into you. You whimpered against his lips, trying to meet his movements with yours to get more of him.

"You're going to make me cum." Aegon announced through his groans, unable to last long with how well you were taking him. "I'm going to fill you up, little dove. You want that, don't you? I'll make you mine." You let out a mix between a moan and a whine as his thrusts up into you grew rougher, the sounds of your shared pleasure filling the otherwise quiet room. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, mouth wide open as you failed to do much else other than let him fuck you.

"Fuck! Aegon!" You managed to get out as the tip of his cock grazed your sweet spot, pushing you closer to your impending climax. All it took was one more touch of that same spot, more head-on this time, for you to cum around him, your cunt fluttering with the force of your orgasm. He followed soon after, losing his rhythm before his hips stilled, warm cum coating your insides and spilling out down your thighs.

You slumped over, breathing heavily as you lay next to him, placing your head on his chest as your post-orgasmic haze set it. His fingers combed through your hair, deep violet eyes closing as his lips curled up into a satisfied smile; the silver-haired man being pleasantly exhausted.

"I love you." You spoke softly, breaking the silence. "They say love is where duty ends, Aegon." The prince tucked a stray lock of your hair behind your ear before caressing your cheek.

"That's because love feels a lot better, sweetling. We all indulge despite what's expected of us. Tonight we chose to indulge in each other," he leaned in, a sweet kiss soon finding its way to you. "It's wrong, isn't it? What we've done here. I don't care how wrong things may be, not when you're next to me, warming my bed." He moved on top of you, being to press chaste, loving kisses to your neck. You smiled tiredly, wrapping your arms around him, enjoying the warmth he radiated.

No one would keep you from him, not after tonight. You'd both have to return to your spouses eventually when duty overpowered love, but for now, you were each other's.

When what was expected of you did make its call you separated from Aegon, bathing away the remnants of your night together before leaving his chambers, thankful that the servants who fetched the water didn't pry further. Later on, you found yourself in the library, pretending to read a book while you reminisced about that first kiss with Aegon that started it all between you and him. The sound of shoes stepping against the hard floor drew you out of your thoughts, and you looked up toward the source, finding it to be your mother.

"We need to talk," Rhaenyra said with concern in her voice, making her way to you quickly, a small cup held carefully in her hands. She sat beside you, handing you the cup. You took it, a confused look on your face.

"What's this?" You asked, looking down at the currently unidentified liquid that smelled of tansy and sweet honey.

"I don't know what you've done, what risks you've already taken, but rumors have spread of your infidelity." Your mother explained. "I do not wish to interrogate you, but I have a feeling I already know who it is whom you've spent your time with, and knowing who he is, I know these words are likely more than just gossip spread by those wishing to sully your name."

Your heart sunk at her words, and it was then that you knew what she had handed you. It was moon tea, that's why it smelled of tansy. "Mother, I'm—" She stopped you, placing her hands onto yours, comforting you.

"I know what it's like to choose love over all else, and the dangers which come. You mentioned in passing a few days ago how Aemond hadn't touched you in a long while. He's no fool. He'll know if you fall pregnant that the child isn't his, and I fear what he may do once that realization comes.

You took a deep breath, bringing the cup up to your lips and taking a sip, the taste both bitter and sweet as it reached your tongue. Your mother understood like no other could.

"It is just a precaution, sweet girl. I trust you to be cautious from now on. Duty ends where love starts." She stood up, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You needed your mother in this moment, and here she was. She was right. Duty ends where love starts. That phrase would become your mantra.

[genshindsau]

Summary: Dom/sub Universe. Aether always prided himself on following your rules - never one to break them. Yet, two weeks without you left him teetering on the edge until he finally wasn't able to handle it. However, what he didn't expect was for you to get home a few days early, much less to catch him in such a compromising position. He knew begging wouldn't help, neither would false promises, he was going to be punished regardless.

Cw: sub!aether, dom!reader, dom/sub relationship, sexual rules, non-sexual rules, masturbation, spanking, voyeurism, degradation, commands, anal, light degradation, dubious consent (Aether is in pain but he doesn't ask reader to stop), everything is consensual, safewords are implied, oral (Aether receiving), pain from overstimulation

Aether trembled under his own ministrations. Even with one hand focusing on jerking his weeping cock and the other stuffing two fingers inside of him, he couldn't get past the barest amount of pleasure. He fell forward, his face pressed into the pillow as he tried to mimic the movement you would do. Curling his fingers, grinding back against them and clenching around them as they failed to reach deep inside of him. He tightened his grip around his cock before moving to swipe his thumb over his slit, toying with the small entrance.

Fuck, he internally cursed, tears burning behind his eyelids. If it were your hands doing this he already knew he would have come at least twice but now because he was so accustomed to your touch he was unintentionally edging himself. Hanging right on the edge left him sensitive and he couldn't help the flood of shame washing over him. He shouldn't be doing this, he was breaking a rule and it wasn't like him. He took pride in following your rules, sure sometimes he would playfully tease you but he never once outright broke your rules. But you've been gone for so long. Its been over two weeks which is the longest the two of you have ever been separated since getting together.

He could recite the rules you gave him before leaving without any hesitations. One, make sure he eats three proper meals and drinks at least two glasses of water; two, that he gets at least seven hours of sleep; and three, no touching himself. The first rule was easy to follow especially since you meticulously preprepared meals that would last a while for him that he could easily heat up or cook. The second one was a little more difficult for two reasons. He couldn't sleep as well without you and would wake up sometimes in the middle of the nights and other times work got in the way. However, he managed to fulfill these two rules.

For the third rule, the first week was easy - he was busy with a project for work so it wasn't exactly at the forefront of his mind. However, as the second week rolled around and he finished his project he had time to relax. One night he was mindlessly scrolling on his phone and came across more intimate photos of the two of you. The arousal that swirled in his gut left him curling into himself. Even while staring at a picture of your blissed out face and his cum covering your stomach he refrained from touching himself.

One day, turned into two, turned into three, then as the forth day hit he spent the entire day trying to redirect his focus from the hard-on in his pants. He finally crumbled after the two of your talked for almost an hour over the phone that morning. Hearing your voice and the subtle teases that he knew you were doing on purpose caused his control to slip - it didn't help that when he called you, it was nighttime where you were so he had fully view of your sleepy look and raspy voice. As soon as you two hung up he made his way into your guys shared bed, clothing being flung onto the floor. He fell onto his stomach and his hips jerked against the crumbled up sheets.

That led him to where he was now with his own fingers stuffed inside of him and his other hand letting go of his cock to grip one of his butt cheeks, pulling them apart to try and reach deeper.

"hah - mgh," his cock dragged on the comforter beneath him, his hips lurching forward. The pads of his fingers were pushing against his walls seeking out that one spot you always hit with such precision and left him sobbing and shaking underneath your own body.

The thought of you learning about his rule breaking had completely vanished from his mind. He bit down on the pillow and his tears finally fell - one drop cascading down his cheeks before another followed and then another…

"Seriously," your voice cut through the room and he froze, his hands stilling.

"Y/n," he stuttered. Scared to turn around he brought his hands to the pillow.

"That’s all you've got to say?" You ponder as you took him in. His head was angled down to stare at the bed sheets and his fingers were clutching at the sheets tight enough that his knuckles were whitening. "Couldn't even last two weeks without needing something inside of you, could you?"

He burned underneath your gaze and the words you said. Embarrassed that what you said had some truth to it.

"Not to mention the fact that you broke one of the rules." Due to his head being downcast he couldn't see you as your stalked towards him. "I only gave you three and yet you broke one of them."

"I," he hesitated on what to say. "I'm sorry." He whispered out, his voice cracking.

"Its hard to believe that pathetic apology, especially with the way you dripping all over the sheets and well this," Two of your fingers delicately ran over his rim which fluttered underneath your soft touch.

His breath came out in harsh pants. You let out a small whistle, "Must have been going at it for a while, considering how open this is." Two of your fingers easily slipped inside of him. His hips jerked forward and he tried to pull away, "Don’t move."

He body froze as the command settled over him. The feeling washed over him, traveling up to his head causing his body to go lax.

"did you cum?" You asked in such a condescending tone that it left him shriveling underneath you. You knew that answer. You knew that he was conditioned to your touch and your touch alone.

"I - agh - i…" He tried to gets words out but with your fingers spreading him out, stretching him so that there was just bearable sting his mouth hung open, tongue hanging out.

"You.. You," you repeated back to him, mocking him.

"ahh," the resounding smack to the back of his thighs left him trying to squirm away, his hands cling onto the sheets trying to pull himself forward and away from your hands.

"Answer me."

It was a command. He had to answer. The command left him lightheaded as his mind failed to follow through right away.

"no," You rewarded him with a curl of your fingers as he answered. "nono. I didn't. couldn't." He gasped out in one breath, the feeling of being on the precipice of an orgasm wrecking his mind.

"Couldn't?" you repeat back to him. "Why not?"

You were teasing him with your words while your hand inched in another finger.

"be-because - nghh," Feeling your fingers (was it three, or was it four, he wasn't sure) curl inside of him he couldn't finish speaking. His thighs shook as his bottom lifted from the sheets, spasming around your fingers. "It wasn't," a breath was forced out of him, "it wasn't you."

He heard a small laugh leave you and then the angling of your fingers grazing the inside of him and pressing the pads of your fingertips - "ahhh" he wailed out as his body heated up, cock bobbing and spilling out all over the sheets.

"There you go," your other hand rubbed the small of his back, a false comfort even as your fingers refused to stop their movement. "Good boy."

He wasn't even able to come down from his first orgasm because your continued to curl your fingers, pressing insistently inside of him. "You really didn't think I'd just let you get off with breaking the rules?"

His mouth opened to reply but all that came out were harsh pants. "no. I just - I thought - mhh," his body trembled and spasmed as he came again, this time falling against the sheets, your fingers slipping out of him. In turn, your hands went to his butt cheeks, opting to palm them. "I thought you wouldn't let me," he hesitantly whispered out, embarrassed at having to voice this thought out.

Instead of replying right away, your hands moved to his hips and forced his body to turn around so that he was on his back. It was the first time since you've found him that he was able to properly look at you. The desire in your eyes left him stunned. "Is that so." You hummed and he nodded.

"Perhaps I shoudn't." You ran one finger down his softening cock. "Afterall, do you know how shocked I was that Aether, my Aether, was touching himself when he knew not too." You feign a sigh and shrugged your shoulders. "I mean you breaking my rules, that’s practically unheard of."

He sniffled, upset with himself and the despair that came from your words.

"You're usually so good," As you finished talking your wrapped one hand around his cock, perhaps a bit too tight but a punishment wasn't suppose to be all pleasurable. "Who knew that you're actually a slut who couldn't even keep his own hands off of himself."

"I'm not." His voice wobbled, tears beading in his eyes. His hips lurched up, cock slowly swelling up one more. "I'm good," he corrected himself, "I can be good."

You pulled your hand away and licked the tip of your thumb before bringing it back down to his own cock. With the swipe of your thumb, you picked up the lingering wetness seeping out of his slit. The feeling of your finger rubbing at his head left his back arching, the arousal building at an almost painful rate.

Hands scrambled downwards, trying to grab at your wrist. A smack filled the room as you slapped his hands away. "Keep them to yourself."

A sob was stuck in his throat. Your second hand came down to cup his balls, squeezing them and rolling them in your palm. His stomach tightened underneath the warmth of your touch, mouth falling open. The pressure continued to build in him and as the recurring jolts of pleasure shot through him, he emptied onto himself, some of it coming to land on his own cheek.

With the pleasure still coursing through him, he was dizzy with his lust. The aftereffects of the orgasm continued to wrack his body, leaving him twitching underneath you. He wasn't even able to recognize your hand which continued to jerk him off, even as he softened once more.

His upper body lurched up, trying to curl up into himself but he was stopped by your own body. The warmth emitting from your body left him defenseless as he collapsed against you. You slowed your movement but continued to run your hand around his cock. His thighs trembled and tried to close but was unable to due to you sitting in between them.

"mghh, I - ah," his head fell to your neck, breath coming out in uneven pants. "y/n, pleaseplease," he wasn't even sure what he was asking, his mind muddled with the pleasure and the pain starting to bleed through. Your free hand wrapped around his waist, keeping him close to you.

"c'mon love, one more, you can do that for me right." You cooed and bit down on his ears. "Don't you want to be good for me." It was manipulative but all he could hear was the words repeating in his head 'want to be good for me, good for me, good for me'

He nodded, "I do," he gasped out. "I'll be good." He jerked in your grasp, his hips trying to squirm away, the aching and itchy feeling sinking in. "bu-but.." his body hurt, his cock wasn't working right, he wasn't hard and the pleasure was quickly be replaced with pain. "I don’t th-think I can," his voice broke in between.

His arms came to latch around your shoulders as he was overcome with the need to cry out. "It hurts," he whimpered out. "please."

He felt your chest move as you sighed and your hand retracted from him. His chest burned. In his hazy mind he took that sigh as a sign that you were disappointed in him. One hand came to pull his head back and away from your shoulders. You cupped your palm to his feverish cheeks and he practically melted into the touch.

"I'll give you a minute to calm down but this is a punishment, its not suppose to be completely pleasurable." You reminded him. "You remember what to do if it truly gets too much, right?"

He took in a few deep breaths and nodded. The pain and pleasure were lingering but not nearly as strong and as encompassing as before.

"Alright, lay back." You put your hand on his chest to push him back down onto his back and he couldn't help the pout that formed on his lips. A small smile formed on your lips and you ran a finger over his bottom lip.

Your hands ran over his chest and down his stomach and his body squirmed at the soft touch. His stomach was soaked in sweat and lingering remnants of his previous orgasms. He tensed, expecting to feel your touch on his cock but instead you passed it, picking up all the remaining mess on his stomach and traveling to his thighs.

You pushed his thighs further apart, letting him feel the uncomfortable tightness from his muscles being pulled. You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his thighs. He relished in the soft touches and the wetness that came from your lips.

Once you were satisfied you moved to the other, making sure to sink your teeth in enough to leave lasting marks. He flinched at the pain from your teeth but that pain quickly morphed into pleasure.

When one of your fingers prodded at his hole, his legs jerked, moving to bend them so that he feet were flat on the bed. Three of your finger slid right into him and Aether let out a pleasurable moan. This touch was much more bearable compared to the direct contact on his cock.

While curling your fingers inwards, you moved to pull your fingers back before thrusting them in. Whines filled the room along with wet sounds as your fingers moved. If Aether was more aware, he would be embarrassed but all he could feel was the tightening all throughout his body, his legs kicking out as his hips jerked up. His whole body felt like it was lighting up, the arousal wrack through every crack and crevice through his body.

"y/n,y/n,y/n" it seems like all he could say was your name as he spilled over himself. His eyes were half lidded, wanting to shut due to the pleasure but also not wanting to look away from you.

He wailed out as you slowed down your fingers but continued to move them more purposefully inside of him. You knew exactly where to aim and hit and it seems that you were done holding back. He felt your other hand pressing his waist down, ensuring that he couldn't squirm away.

As the third orgasm hit him, his movements lost the force behind them, allowing you to easily maneuver him or hold him down however you wanted. His head was resting against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling through blurry eyes. Tears cascaded freely down his cheeks and fell off of his chin. His lips were dropped open, pants and cries passing through them.

As you leaned down, your lips passed over the skin of his cock. You could tell he has finally fallen into that blissful headspace as he barely reacted, if anything he moved as if to get more of the stimulation despite the dull pain of the overstimulation registering in the back of his mind.

You ran your tongue from the bottom of his cock up until you got to the head. When you wrapped your lips around the tip and sucked Aether keened, his back arching and hips twitching. He let out a soft whimper, his voice not stable enough to do anything too loud. You continued to suck and twirl your tongue, inching a little more of him down your throat.

He couldn't even warn you as he came, his cum filling your mouth as you drank it down. There wasn't much, not even enough to fill your mouth, indicating just how many time he had came. As you pulled off you suspected that by the next orgasm he wouldn't have anything left inside of him.

He was shaking, the pain setting in and becoming more prominent as you continued to play with him. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, unable to form any words.

You pulled back all forms of contact. Aether trembled underneath your gaze. Even without you touching him, his body felt like all the nerves were exposed, red-hot heat bubbling underneath his skin threatening to burst at the slightest touch from you.

You leaned forward, pushing back the sweaty strands of hair that stuck to his forehead. Looking at his spit-slicked lips, the glossy shine on his face all you wanted to do was kiss him but you refrained. You would only kiss him after his punishment was done.

In a daze, his eyes fixated on your form hovering above him. He instinctively tried to lean up, chasing your blurry frame. It was amusing to see him try but his body felt like it was floating and yet at the same time, held down so he struggled to even lift his head.

A chuckle filled the room as you used one hand to press down on his forehead causing him to fall back. His breathing had calmed down, regulating to a normal speed. You took this moments to let your hands travel around his body. Your cupped his neck, letting your thumb graze his jaw, trailed down his chest, smiling as he jerked when you twisted his nipples, and then his stomach.

"Easy love," you cooed out as he jerked as your touch got lower and your ran your nails around his base, where the skin met.

He heard the words, could tell that you were speaking but they didn't compute. His body reacted on its own, squirming and trying to move away from the feeling.

"huhh - nnoo - ungh," Aether tried to speak despite his muddled mind but only small sounds left him. He felt the stretch of his rim as you reinserted four fingers.  

"Just a little more sweetheart," the pain steadily built up, encompassing the pleasure this time. His hands flailed around, trying to grab onto you but you easily smacked them away. "One more love, just one more then we'll be done."

You roughened your movements, curling finger into him and your other hand moved to his softened cock that was resting on the mess on his stomach. A wail was punctured out of him, his voice cracking. He could barely feel the pleasure, instead he ached deep inside and yet his body continued to build up to his orgasm. His stomach was wildly tensing and contracting.

The uncomfortable feeling continued to build until his back arched a final time, mouth dropping open in a silent scream. His body spasmed and you watched as nothing came out of him. He wasn't able to calm down, shaking as sobs left his lips. "sorry," he hushed out, voice barely audible. "sorrysorrysorry," he shook his head rapidly. "wo-won't do it ag-again."

You gently shushed him and maneuvered him into your lap, his body pliant underneath your hands. You dragged his head to rested on your chest, letting him listen to your heartbeat. You brought your other hand to cover his free ear, ensuring that he could just focus on the one thing.

"You did so good love," you littered kisses to the side of his head. With how badly he was trembling you thought about giving him a command, wanting him to calm down when he was obviously struggling but you opted against it. It could also make things worse. His mind, as dazed as it was, would unconsciously recognize the words and do what you said but if his body reacted faster than his mind did it could cause problems in the future with his response to commands. Instead you just held him close and worked on doing everything you knew from past experiences that would help him come back to himself.

--

With his head on your chest, "I did follow the other rules though." He quietly added, finally starting to come back to himself.

You laughed and then pressed a kiss to his forehead. "That’s good sweetheart."

[inhuman-obey-me]

Babel-ing: An Overview of NB Lesson 44

Okay, we have a couple things to talk about with regards to the latest lesson! Some interesting worldbuilding and some moments that leave us with many questions. Let's get into it, shall we?

(spoilers for NB Lesson 44 below the cut)

In terms of worldbuilding, the main point of focus in this lesson is on Babel and its power as a "place of solace and bliss."

What does this mean in practice? Well, in classic OM fashion, it means we get to rapidly cycle through short little scenes of what each brother's individual "bliss" looks like, one at a time -- with some getting more depth to the writing than others, unfortunately.

Specifically, they boil Asmo's down to just "compliments", Levi's to "TSL", and Satan's, as exhaustingly usual, to "cats". This was presumably in the interest of time, but considering what the next three then get -- come on, really?

Starting with Mammon's, however, it starts getting a little bit more thoughtful. Considering the first three, it seemed like his would probably be something to do with money, but instead, Babel gives him a little private time with MC -- though, not that private, as it turns out everyone else was just invisible. Mostly, that just makes for a funny scene, but it does say something notable about how magic works in Babel: they entered as a group and apparently must experience all of the moments collectively as a group, even when Babel is trying to grant a wish of privacy.

Next, Beelzebub and Belphegor are implied to get their bliss in the form of happiness for each other. Belphie's consisted of Beel getting to happily eat a bunch of food, and then for some odd reason, there was an odd bit about him snubbing and frowning at all the other brothers during what was supposed to be his happy time. The game suggests this is because Mammon and Asmo started sucking up to him in hopes of also getting in on their wishes being fulfilled, and he's mad about it because of the prior "Belphie is the imposter" suspicions during the entry riddle. But even so, it's a bit strange that half his "bliss" scene consists of him being grumpy, so...that's a thing.

Beelzebub's, in turn, is to make Belphie happy - specifically, for everyone to fall asleep and share a dream of the Celestial Realm together, which is when things get especially interesting.

We have theorized before that Belphegor is the one who most seems to miss the Celestial Realm, so it brings up a question of whether Beel also wishes for them all to be back there, or whether the setting is because that's where he feels Belphie would be happiest. The brothers start reminiscing excitedly about a particular memory of Raphael going after Mammon for skipping out on work, while Belphie naps happily at their feet.

There are, however, two very notable exceptions to the brothers' nostalgia - Satan and Lucifer.

No matter which of the two you address about their silence, Asmo apologizes about the fact that Satan, not having been around at the time, probably feels out of place because he once again doesn't share the same memories that the others are talking about. Now, the game handles this by deciding that, actually, since it has been established before that Satan has some of Lucifer's old memories, he does "remember" about that particular moment, and has Belphie tug on Satan's clothes in his sleep to suggest that the brothers still think of him as part of the family.

It does not, however, address how Satan might feel about the fact that one of his brothers' representations of "bliss" consists of being back in the Celestial Realm. It probably doesn't feel great for a demon who has never been an angel to just be placed into one of the angel outfits and be told, essentially, that their happiest times were before he was born, but just with him added in now! Even if he has a memory of it from Lucifer's point of view, he's not actually part of their memories in their minds.

And although questioning Lucifer's silence brings up the same discussion, he likely would have had his own reasons for being uncomfortable in this situation. We know that he has always harbored guilt over his brothers falling alongside him. In NB Season 1, he even wanted to send his brothers back to the Celestial Realm without him, so that they could be spared from sharing his punishment! They all chose back then to stay with him and Satan in the Devildom, but it must feel pretty painful then for him to have concrete proof that one of the brothers would be happiest by being angels again in the Celestial Realm after all.

Well, that sure makes it a bit of an awkward transition when the last up is, as always, Lucifer himself! Nothing in particular really happens for his, with MC pointing out that his bliss has just been seeing his brothers happy that whole time. And for once, they also throw in a little side story based on some options for what MC's "bliss" moment is, which is nice to see for once!

After everything, Raphael (the real one this time) shows up and instantly gets accused of being Michael again, leaving him grumbling about how he'd been sent by the top seraph himself to guide them but it seemed that was not needed after all. And then we get one more very interesting nugget of worldbuilding lore -- it has actually only been their souls in Babel that whole time, and their bodies have been left elsewhere.

This, combined with texts to Solomon from Diavolo last lesson, and Thirteen this time, inquiring about his choice not to go in with the family, bring up some fascinating questions. When Diavolo had asked, the sorcerer had suggested he might not pass judgment to get in and didn't want to bring the brothers down with him. However, this time, when Thirteen asks, he is more evasive and answers that it's complicated.

It's not entirely clear if his decision to keep away from the inside of Babel is related to this bit about their souls, but it's certainly a fascinating possibility! After all, we heard a bit about Solomon's soul from Thirteen in earlier Nightbringer seasons...

Finally, there's one more detail which stood out after our return from Babel. In two separate post-story texts, Simeon and Raphael both check in on how MC is doing after their trip to Babel, with the latter in particular expressing concern about any issues and encouraging them to go to bed early to "be on the safe side."

As we discussed last time, Babel is a very well-kept secret, and on the Celestial Realm side, only seraphs are even supposed to know of its existence. It was also a seraph (Michael disguised as Raphael) who administered the judgment test for them to enter. That makes it quite interesting that, aside from Lucifer who is with us, it is the seraph and former seraph who check in on us afterwards. Could this imply something more harmful or unsettling about Babel, despite the "place of solace and bliss" description? Or is it simply a reference to the strange magic that exists in Babel?

We'll see if any more of Babel is mentioned later in the season, but considering we also haven't heard from or about Nightbringer (you know, the one this new game is literally named after) in quite some time, who knows? Time will tell if the devs will follow up on any of their plot threads, ever!

[talonabraxas]

Sahasrāra Chakra

Sahasrāra = thousand, infinite

The Sahasrāra Chakra is located on the crown of the head beneath the Fontanelle, which is easily visible in a new-born child. It is also known as the Thousand-petalled Lotus, Brahmrandhra (door to Brahma) and Source of Light (because a supernatural light as bright as the sun radiates from it).

No other light approaches the brilliance of the sun. In the same way the radiance of all other Chakras fades before the incomparable radiance of the Sahasrāra Chakra. The Sahasrāra possesses no special colour or quality. Its light contains all colour vibrations united in the incomparable brilliance of pure light. The energy of all Nādīs flows together here, just as the water of a thousand rivers comes together in the sea.

The element of the Sahasrāra Chakra is ĀDI TATTVA or ĪSHVARA TATTVA . It is the source of creation, the pure light and one reality – God. This Tattva is Ādi Anādi. Ādi means “without beginning”, Anādi means “without end” – therefore infinite. As soon as this Tattva unites with a quality (Guna) it is bound and therefore limited – just as pure water has no taste of its own, but is modified by and takes on the taste of whatever is added to it. In the Cosmos there are diverse manifestations of this one Tattva with various qualities and functions – such as fire, water, air and earth – but the basis is always the same, the pure essence.

The awakening of the Sahasrāra Chakra means revelation of the Divine Splendour and attainment of Supreme Consciousness. It is the seat of Lord Shiva, whom we have met in three forms in the Chakras:

In the Mūlādhāra Chakra as Pashupati, Lord of the Animals.

In the Mūlādhāra and Āgyā Chakras in the symbol of the Shiva Lingam.

In the Sahasrāra Chakra as Ādi Anādi, Supreme Divine Consciousness and original foundation of the Universe.

Ādi Shiva is the uncreated creator of the Cosmos (Svayambhu). He represents Ānanda (bliss), Purusha (pure consciousness) and Moksha (liberation). He is perfect, eternal and divine, and radiant like a million suns. No Karmas can touch Him, all impurities melt and burn in his proximity. Only purity, clarity, light, love and truth emanate from Him.

In each individual (Jīvātmā), the Self (Ātmā) resides with the Supreme Self (Paramātmā), appearing in the form of Ādi Shiva in the Sahasrāra Chakra. In essence Ātmā and Paramātmā are the same. The Ātmā also possesses divine consciousness, but until it has attained liberation (Moksha) it is closely linked to the personal “I” and the Koshas , and through this is qualified and limited. But Paramātmā is unlimited and therefore impersonal – it is the Universal, Supreme Self, the “Light of Life”. When the consciousness of the Jīvātmā reaches Ādi Shiva in the Sahasrāra Chakra and merges with it, it is illuminated and freed from any shackles and limitations. Just as night gives way to sunrise, the darkness of ignorance fades with the opening of the Sahasrāra Chakra. We can attain this through Kriyā Yoga meditation and Guru Kripā .

The Jīvātmā strives lifelong for reunion with its source, the Supreme Self, either consciously or unconsciously. Or, expressed another way, our lifelong striving for happiness and fulfilment is, at its deepest level, the union of Jīvātmā and Paramātmā, which, translated in the symbolism of the Chakras, is the union of Shiva and Shakti.

Shakti is located in the Mūlādhāra Chakra and Shiva in the Sahasrāra Chakra. Between the two exists an irresistible attraction, and we experience the distance between them as a dark zone of unclarity and ignorance. The trench that separates Shiva and Shakti (otherwise known as Purusha and Prakriti – consciousness and nature) is “not-knowing”, and the consequence of “not-knowing” are emotions full of suffering, such as loneliness, sadness, bitterness, fear, doubt, etc., that accompany us through life. The bridge across this gap of ignorance is blocked by barriers and the rocks of numerous Karmas and restrictive qualities.

Icchā Shakti (willpower) is the force that finally provides the impulse for the removal of the rocks of Karmas and cumbersome qualities once and for all. Once this Sacred Will arises within the Jīvātmā, it leads inexorably to union with the Divine Self. In line with the Karma and personality structure of the aspirant, this process can either continue in tumultuous and intense circles or unfold gradually and calmly.

The union of Shiva and Shakti occurs when the stream of energy in the two main Nādīs, Idā and Pingalā , unite and rise through the Sushumnā Nādī. There is, however, one important condition. As written in the chapter on the Anāhata Chakra, the seat of the Ātmā is in the heart, and realisation of the Ātmā takes place only when a simultaneous awakening of the Anāhata Chakra and the Sahasrāra Chakra occurs. With this a direct connection from the Sahasrāra Chakra to the Anāhata Chakra through the Brahmā Nādī (also known as Gyāna Nādī) is established. If the Anāhata Chakra is blocked and the flow of Bhakti, love and devotion, has also dried up the Sahasrāra Chakra does not open.

Only with the complete awakening of the Anāhata Chakra does the flame of light, which is the Ātmā, rise from the heart and reach the level of Divine Consciousness through the “Door of Brahman”. Then, in the ocean of Brahma Gyāna the thousand-petalled Lotus unfolds, and in its centre the pearl of Paramshakti shines. Like a “swan” the Jīvātmā dives into the splendour of eternal, Divine existence. When it unites with the Supreme Self its existence dissolves – just as a river loses its name when it flows into the ocean. Now it is in the sphere of pure consciousness. Its form is perfect divine consciousness and eternal, divine bliss – SAT CHIT ĀNANDA SVARŪPA ĀTMĀ. The Realised Ones and Saints of all ages have reached this level of consciousness, which cannot be described with words.

When we are unable to see or experience anything in meditation, it is because our vision is obstructed by the barrier of the limited “I”. Though our Ātmā is directly connected to God, and is, in fact, God, we are not yet conscious of this.

We will again return to the image of the Lotus. The root of the Lotus represents Ādi Shakti, the original, divine power, which is located in the Mūlādhāra Chakra. The Blossom in the Sahasrāra Chakra is Ādi Shiva, the Divine Consciousness and Supreme Self. In Rāja Yoga these two primal principles are known as Jīvātmā and Paramātmā. When they become one it is said that we are “one with our Self”, whereas in reality there is no difference between them. The division is only apparent, because we are not conscious of the real unity. And yet the Jīvātmā must wander along a lengthy and often very difficult path until it again discovers this oneness within the consciousness.

The development of the consciousness progresses step-by-step; just like the seed of a Lotus when dropped into the soil first produces a delicate bud, then continues to grow upwards towards the light. The journey leads from the root of the Lotus (Mūla Prakriti) through the water (the World, which is Māyā), upwards along the stem of the Lotus (the different Chakras and levels of consciousness) until it finally reaches the blossom, the Sahasrāra Chakra.

All individuals travel along their own pathway, have their own history and their own experiences – but at the end all inevitably reach the same goal, the same truth and the same reality. However, until then it is a long journey. Only those who purposefully follow the spiritual path throughout their life with consistency and discipline, come through. Those who pursue happiness in the external world, lose their way. Eternal, true happiness is found within us and not outside. Just as a stag runs after the scent of musk not realising it is he himself who is producing it, we seek fulfilment of our wishes in the external world and are not aware that everything we are missing and seeking is carried within us.

As Saint Francis of Assissi so concisely expressed it:

“That for which they seek is that which searches.”

Only when we turn towards the inner Self do we find fulfilment and peace.

Seek only God; do not look for spiritual sensations, or Siddhis , or extraterrestrial adventures. Hand your life over to God and pray in this way: “Oh Lord, may Your will be done. May my destiny be fulfilled”.

The greatest happiness that can be bestowed upon us, due to good actions in earlier lives, is a meeting with a spiritual Master. The Masters assist us through techniques with which we are able to purify our “inner field” and open our consciousness to the Divine Light. They accompany us on all levels through our development, wherever our destiny takes us. Under their protection our soul cannot be harmed, no matter what happens.

The greatest misfortune is to die without attaining God-Realisation. Painfully, the Jīvātmā comes to the realisation that it has missed the opportunity of human life and must re-enter the cycle of death and rebirth.

After death we move unavoidably into the astral level appropriate to our Karma. In the astral world we are fully aware of all events but are incapable of taking any action. We see our life running past us like a film. We recognise the mistakes of our earthly life, and also joyfully experience the bliss of divine light and divine love resulting from our spiritual progress and good actions. But there is no possibility whatsoever of any further resolution or intervention. The direction and goal of our journey is determined solely by the trend of our Karmas.

Here the Jīvātmā follows one of three possible threads of destiny: Two lead to a new birth in the world of Māyā, and the third to Realisation and union with the Supreme Self.

In the Bhagavad Gita (8/24-25) Lord Krishna explains the circumstances by which the soul comes to one of these paths.

Anyone who still has some Karma adhering – good or bad – will take on a mortal body again. Those who in their earthly life load themselves largely with bad deeds, were unkind and lacked compassion for others will be born into an animal level of consciousness. With complete justification this can be described as “hell”. In an animal life form the ability of expression and development of the soul is greatly limited. It does not possess free will, intellect, speech or the capacity to reason. In this existence there is only a very small and slow development of consciousness; all karmas must be lived through over the pre-determined period, and be cleared away. But those whose good karmas predominated have the opportunity to aspire to human birth and liberation. In line with the ratio of good and bad karmas their existence is either happy or full of sorrow. The most beautiful fruit from existences which were full of good and noble actions, is a happy life enriched with numerous opportunities for development in a spiritual and peaceful environment.

Those who finally attain liberation through knowledge and selfless deeds (Nishkāma Karma), and with the help of the Master and God’s grace are not born again – unless they voluntarily decide to return to the earth as a helper or a teacher.

These are the paths the soul takes after earthly death. Normally the soul (together with the astral and causal bodies ) leaves the physical body through one of the “nine doors” – the mouth, eyes, ears, nostrils, excretory organs or genitals. Occasionally it can be clearly seen through which door the soul departs. If a dying person eliminates excrement or urine it is an indication that the soul is wandering in a lower level of consciousness. These souls, particularly, need our prayers so they can find their way to a higher consciousness when they again finally obtain a human birth after a long waiting period. Many dying people open their mouths or eyes; with others a drop of blood comes from their nose or ears. These souls wander in the astral level appropriate to their Karma.

But the Ātmā of liberated Yogis and Masters departs through the “tenth door” – the Sahasrāra Chakra. (This is occasionally visible through a drop of blood or ray of light appearing at the crown of the head). Realised souls go to the highest level of the Cosmos where they are honourably welcomed as triumphant heroes.

The path of development through the Chakras, the process of change in the consciousness and the investigation of our own thoughts and feelings, is no easy undertaking. Many old habits must be given up, and much must be overcome. Unfortunately we continue to perform ill-considered actions, speech and thoughts. But for all the errors that we committed in ignorance we can ask for forgiveness and pray:

“Oh Lord, lead us from ignorance to wisdom, from darkness to the light of knowledge. May Your Divine Light always enlighten my heart and my consciousness”.

Though the way may still be onerous and thorny, when we reach the goal we forget immediately all pain, and the effort expended appears to vanish when compared to the bliss we now experience. Therefore we should stay strong and under no circumstances give up our goal.

The most important thing in life is that our spiritual practices are always performed with Bhakti – love and devotion. Through Bhakti, Ātma Chintana (constantly thinking about the Ātmā), Mantra and meditation the Chakras are awakened. Sāttvika Bhakti is a safe and certain pathway to God, because while the flame of pure love and devotion burns within us no shadow or destructive forces can approach us.

Allow the river of love to flow within, and hold the candle of wisdom firmly in your hand. Be a light to anyone you meet and help them on their path. In this way you will continue to progress and develop further on your spiritual path.

[yiga-hellhole]

TFTK CHAPTER 19: TWILIGHT KING'S REVERIE

there's some real utena type shit happening here i think (special thanks to @orfeoarte for the lettering and also the beta reading!!)

CHAPTER 19 IS DOOONE thank you all for your patience. this time we're diving into the depths of zant's mind again. what's he thinking about so soon before (what may be) his final battle? well, read and find out!

AAAAGGHH I'm sooooo excited to drop this chapter!! I've been looking forward to writing it ever since i started making this fic into a full-length, multi-chapter story!! i really hope you'll enjoy it. thanks again to @bulgariansumo and orfeoarte for giving it the once-over!

CW this chapter: Suicidal ideation, self harm, graphic violence. once again past the three asterisk *** mark the chapter gets erotic undertones, but with high plot relevance, i hope you'll give it a look either way!

ao3 mirror

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14

“If there is anything you desire, then I shall desire it, too.”

So spoke the colossal face before him. Zant stood there, frozen in a gaping stare as this massive, golden specter hovered before him. He had run to this balcony to shout his woes to the skies, losing himself in flagellant grief, in the fragile hope enough beatings would keep his anguish at bay. Perhaps if he cried out long enough, something would answer. Either something that would, by some miracle, save him from his predicament…

Or, more likely, grant him the willpower to fling himself off the balusters.

Yet, when he raised his face, the dreary ombre skies were nowhere in sight. Instead, there was a swirling, black orb blotting out the clouds, droning deeply to chatter his teeth in their sockets. It swallowed him whole.

After bidding him that promise, the sea around him shifted. From its depths, a shadowy hand surfaced to part the waves. It reached out to him, claw outstretched. Large, sharp enough to impale him with a single prod, yet Zant felt not a scrap of fear. He knew all it would do was fulfill its words. The tip of its finger touched his forehead. Souls touched, one so, so grand, dwarfing his, and chained together. Through this tether, a bolt of power crossed, and shook him to his core.

It was euphoric, a pure, blinding bliss as this being of pure magic entered him. He was his savior, his guardian angel, watching over him in his darkest moment and deciding He would help. With every breath, foggy ambrosia filled his lungs and leached into his veins. It clouded his thoughts, dulled his every sense, and smothered it all with a warm, tingling numbness. He had never felt more full, yet emptier all the same. His every nerve coiled in on itself – had he any breath to utter it, this ecstasy would have unlodged a whimper, to echo into this space of all spaces. Whatever being he had just communed with, it was in him and snaked its way into his every inch. One finger twitched, then another, until his hand moved on its own. With tenderness he didn’t know rested within his flesh, his thumb stroked past his, their, cheek, and rid it of its tears.

In this single second, he felt more divinity than he’d ever had, in all his years praying to his lesser gods in the palatial temple. How he wandered the wastelands clutching and clacking beads in search of a solution to their plights. What he worshiped then were mere vestiges compared to this all-encompassing force, little pieces of holiness his forebears dragged with them in tatters when they were condemned to this dying world. That world that had gurgled its last breath in its septic lungs before they’d even entered it, and hacked and coughed it out as they made their home there. 

This Being – Ganon – laughed within him, His manic glee spreading through him like a rot. There was no doubt about it; true, pitch-dark malevolence had made him its host, a being of pure vengeance that tangled with his own as if by fated embrace. But even as his mind darkened, a faint glimmer shone, kindled there by his own hand.

Hope.

More hope than he had ever felt in his life. This was no mere ancestral spirit. Far more, even, than a curse. This was a God. 

Just as he adjusted to this new force, convulsing and embracing himself, true darkness shrouded him again. When the haze cleared, he did not find himself on the balcony. Instead, he was hovering in the air, looking down at a most familiar scene. There stood Ganondorf, heaving in pain against the Master Sword lodged in his chest, facing two beings of Light that antsily waited for him to die. Zant knew they needn’t wait much longer.

Zant blinked, tilting his head curiously. The man below him winced, but did not perish. Watching the dreadful stillness at his feet, he spoke. “Why did you bring me here again? Are you truly so fond of dying?”

He spoke off-script. The illusion broke, the curtains of their stage torn, not drawn. Ganondorf growled, gazing at his clenched fist that bore a faintly glowing mark, until it did not. “This is the moment I first wished to seize my power back from you. This time I will not fail.”

Zant smiled as he watched his flesh-made God raise his hand toward him. “Once, I may have said you would have to wrench it from my cold, dead hands, but even then, you did not manage it. It is time that you learn, Demon King, that this power is mine and mine alone. As is this vessel. And they shall forever be!”

The illusion broke when he descended, landing before the towering man and grasping the grip of the burrowed sword in his hand. A wet giggle escaped him as he tested the blade, watching as it dug deeper into the gaping wound in Ganondorf’s chest. Ganondorf growled, cutting his laughter short with a fist clenching around his throat, but only enabling his amusement. Such violence begged for retaliation! Both hands wrapped eagerly around the grip and pushed. The master sword sunk deeper into Ganondorf effortlessly, earning him a wheeze of pain, and a once-king before him on his knees.

Zant kicked him over, straddling his chest with the sword before him. His fingers trailed up the blade — just as sharp as he’d remembered it, slicing through his fingertips and blending their streaks of blood. Just that little bit of unity could be indulged, he supposed. 

“No wonder the Ganondorf who torments me now remembers me so little. The piece of him that knew of my vengeance has rested right here, with me, all this time,” he giggled, sentimentally holding a hand over his chest. “And now, here you are. Does it vex you?”

He could only laugh at the burning hatred that glared up at him. Hands grasped over his, attempting to pull the sword out that he so playfully kept pinned down into him. The grip would break his fingers awfully soon, but Zant didn’t care. He had to make this perfectly clear. 

“You have passed your torch, old man, and will walk the living world no longer. The only one to control this body now, is me!”

Zant wrenched himself free and grinned toothily as Ganondorf frantically pulled at a sword that would not move. Odd-angled fingers ignored, he grasped his head in both hands, cackling in pleasure and pain, and twisted.

A dream… A memory? Oh, only if it were.

He awoke in a bed that was not his own, but at this point, it may as well have been. Still sheltered from the sun, he lay buried under the covers, with merely the crown of his head poking past the cloudy white, duck-feather comforter. So dreadfully cold it was in the North this time of year… And how warm he lay here now, with steel knees tucked against his bottom and an arm draped lazily around his chest. The dark beneath the blankets kept him in that fluffy, hardly-woken daze, leading him to think with instincts first, and rationality second. He grasped the hand that laid across his stomach, and with his eyelids fluttering back shut, ran the pads of his fingertips along his beloved’s. No longer as cool as they were during the day… Ghirahim’s skin always warmed, bit by bit, whenever he’d join him for a night, only growing their old frigid when pursuing some pastime or other while Zant lay sleeping.

His thumb quested further, stroking across his glossy nails, before finding the tops of his fingers. Each was diligently inspected, rubbing from knuckle to knuckle. He could visualize those hands behind his eyelids just from touch, by now. How delicate and elegant they were, not a callus in sight, even if he bore the brunt of much labor, and tore through so many in bloodshed. He could drift away again like this, lacing their fingers together, and inching back to nestle closer to him. How much time until dawn, he wondered? 

Lips that pressed into his shoulder shook him into a wide-eyed stare, his cheeks growing hot. His private little moment of affectionate touches was not so private after all… Not when he remembered Ghirahim did not sleep and was perfectly aware of his fiddling. 

Ghirahim hummed, voice hushed as he spoke. “Another nightmare?”

A tight, joint-popping stretch of his spine and legs forced a groan from him, settling him back in his arms soon after. “Oh, not at all. I found myself in the loveliest dream,” Zant yawned.

Ghirahim huffed behind him, unconvinced. “You’re certain? You sounded tormented.”

His hand laid over his, Zant peered over his shoulder, smiling contentedly. “How could anything come to haunt me, when I am protected like this?”

This answer pleased him. “Come to me, my lover,” Ghirahim purred, tugging him closer into his embrace. His fingers now pressed firmly into the supple skin of his stomach – surely, how fiercely such a term flushed him did not pass his notice, clearly felt in the arteries of his gut. “Haha! You asked me to call you such, and now, you fluster?”

A whine escaped him, prompting him to burrow further into his pillow. “To hear it fills me with such glee, Ghirahim-ili. I cannot help it.”

Yet his escape did not prove fruitful. Wherever he hid himself, the heat at his back pulled him back into their intimate contact. Zant was captivated, then, by how warm his core felt, how each churn of energy sent a buzz up his spine that made his face heat up all the brighter. Ghirahim seemed not aware of this, but that enigmatic gem, his heart, his brain, his soul, it made a sound. Like a knife being sharpened, dragged against whetstone as a bow and violin – a crystalline hum. Zant needed only to listen to gauge his mood these days… That is, if the demon could stop being so enamored with the sound of his own voice, to let him hear that telltale song. 

Through his musings, Ghirahim held him, cheekily grasping at his breast in the hope of evoking a laugh in them both. Hands that wished to hold, that wished to be held, made part of something greater than himself. 

Were he to linger in them any longer, he was sure to never rise. How lovely, how adored! His heart fluttered to and fro like a songbird caught in a cage, and his body reacted all the same. Besieged by a fit of giggles, Zant kicked his feet and wrestled his way out of his embrace. Once he sprung free from that iron grip, he launched himself across the bed, stanced on all fours as if Ghirahim might pounce him any moment. If his heartbeat, sending the blood racing through his ears, was to be believed, he would. 

For a moment too bewildered to speak, Ghirahim stared at the grinning creature across him. He grit his teeth in a smirk of his own, before hunching down to prowl towards him. Zant darted from his advance, leaving the sword spirit to thud face-first into the sheets behind him. Sanding down his skills for the fun of it, surely! Else he would have caught him!

Ghirahim huffed, meeting his panting and snickering with a pout. “How juvenile. Pray tell, how old are you again?”

He clawed himself forward twice in a crawl, again playfully scurrying away, until the question prompted him to think. How long since their advance..? What day did he die? 8496 turns of the Twilit Hourglass, three-hundred-sixty-five turns of the Sun in this odd world. Side-by-side, how many days apart, would be… 

Zant blinked in their little stand-still, pulling free from his absent gaze. “Ah. Twenty-nine, as of two weeks ago.”

A quizzical expression crossed Ghirahim’s face. Did such a number mean anything to him, he wondered? Would he think him young or old? But he had little time to pick apart what he might be thinking. For soon Ghirahim grew bored of internal queries, and was upon him in a flash, tumbling the both of them back into the pillows. 

After the protesting squeaks were over with, Zant relented. Now happy to be huddled up with him again, Ghirahim questioned him. “Is the passing of another year not typically celebrated among Twili?”

Zant groaned in thought, squinting his eyes shut. Idle hands drummed on the back splayed across him. “It is, but what a pointless affair it would be. Who would I celebrate it with?”

“What about me,” Ghirahim cooed, prodding a finger at his hostage’s cheek.

“Tracing the days back, I’m sure on the day itself you were once again in my quarters, sharing my company. This, I am plenty content with.”

Such an explanation seemingly bored the Sword Spirit to no end, with how it made him sigh and sink further into the blankets. Zant supposed he was always more of the lavish type, and would not be sated by an answer so sappy and mundane. Perhaps he could think of a gift of sorts to neg him for, but for now…

“We have lingered enough. I would much prefer to dress myself before the sun rises any further. After all, Master needs us to accompany him to the desert sooner than later,” he sighed, nudging at the heavy form atop him to hopefully shake him into action a bit. Zant was perturbed by the gaze that caught onto his. For once, Ghirahim was called to duty and met it with reluctance.

Their arrival at Gerudo Desert was one of eerie calm. Ganondorf awaited them by the gates, watching bemusedly how his chamberlains fussed over the supplies necessary for what would only be a short stay. In warping together, they would have to combine their powers. One hand for each lieutenant, he reached out for them to accept in open palms. A rustle, a chime, a blaring hum – all overlapped in a striking chord. In an instant, the Temple was out of sight.

Zant reflexively wheezed when the new scenery came upon him. Oppressive heat, smothering him from all sides. The dark shelter of his helmet only offered some respite from the dry, sweltering air that crept in through his visor slots. How he cursed the possibilities of an ambush, forbidding him from dressing lightly! 

Permitted by Ganondorf’s advance, the pair of lieutenants turned, watching the Gerudo traverse the sands that led to the city gates mere paces away. To once again be in the desert, watching him march to his goal in this sea of gold, evoked a memory of not long ago. But when the world around him looked far, far different.

—

Weightlessly he hovered in this void expanse, knowing not how long, remembering not how to even care for such a thing. Beckoning again beyond the veil, stirring him from the deepest of slumbers, a shimmer of gold plucked at the strings of his soul. The Sorceress again? It couldn’t be. This was its own power, dark and primordial, of which a mere echo once lingered within Cia. He recognized it, he…

The golden light raced past him now, enveloped him like curtains had been drawn. With a ragged gasp, dry, warm air filled his lungs once more. The tips of his fingers, his ears, his cheeks, all felt red hot with the newly returned sensation of pumping blood. He was alive again. 

Before him, there he stood, fulfilling his promise of centuries past. 

Ganondorf, King of Thieves, King of Demons. 

Yet, this was a different man. The thrum of past power confirmed it. Somewhere, the beaten and defeated fury of an older Ganondorf still weakly snarled from the very void he was just ripped from. A realization struck them both at the same time, causing one to smile, and the other to recoil. Where his supposed God had failed to revive him, his descendant did so without persuasion. 

Whether from his weakened legs, or the force before him commanding it so, he fell forward into a kneel. Ganondorf approached but Zant could not muster the strength to raise his head and witness more than his boots. He felt his fingers shake in their sleeves. With the shouting in his mind, he couldn’t possibly bear to look at both of them at once.

“Shadow Lord Zant, Demon Lord Ghirahim. I have released you from the bounds the Sorceress has placed upon you, and with it, freed you from your imprisonment. From this moment forth, you will follow my every command. Your life is in my hands as the Demon King, and I will snuff it out when I see fit.”

Ganondorf paused, scanning the pair before him with burning eyes. This descendant was forceful. He did not arrive with bribes and promises, he demanded subordination within seconds. 

Seemingly satisfied with the lack of protest thus far, he continued. “The Triforce of Power was stolen from me by the Sorceress’ former half. I enlist your military prowess to assist me in this campaign to seize it.”

Something was missing… Zant realized it, as did the man clawing at the back of his eyes. Only then did the Twili dare lift his face some, to study for an additional spark of austerity, or some telling that he was to be beaten more thoroughly into submission. 

Nothing. There was none at all. Ganondorf glared them both down equally.

How very interesting… This Ganondorf remembered him in name and power only, but not the feud that tied him and his predecessor together for all eternity. Did the shock of death rid him of the memory of his betrayal? Such ignorance could only work to his advantage. If this reborn Demon King needed a servant, he could certainly play the part. What did he have to lose? Arisen anew, he couldn’t let this opportunity to have Hyrule at his feet slip through his fingers again. This third chance could be his last.

The man beside him was clearly much less amicable to the idea. Ghirahim, as he was introduced, had not moved a muscle since surfacing from the gate beside him, his features tightened into a scowl. Zant looked on curiously as the pristine white being burst into laughter.

“Perhaps Cia will be desperate enough to beg for your alliance, but I will not. How low the Sorceress has sunken!”

A peculiar energy buzzed forth from this man, lashing out angrily as his hair bristled and his fists clenched. “You dare to bear the title of Demon King? You are but a mere human! In what realm do demons bow to mortal men!?”

Hands threw up in the air, massive pupils narrowed to slits and his teeth bared in aggression. Certainly an animated character. “It is an insult… A disgrace to my Master! I’ll have your head for such a transgression!”

With a snap of his fingers, a rapier was summoned in the Demon’s hand, but before his fingers could fully curl around its grip, Ganondorf burst toward him like lightning. A swift strike of his fist sent Ghirahim tumbling, skidding through the dust. He came to a halt by the Demon King’s hand, who had gripped his throat with golden-clawed fingers. Sword lost in the dust a few feet away, Ghirahim was powerless against the mighty hand of the Master slamming him into the ground. A choked groan rang from his throat with each impact, his struggles in vain. He was pounded once more into the sand, and Ganondorf held him pinned there, leaning over him with a growl. Ghirahim kicked his legs in a show of defiance, until suddenly, he went still. Even beyond the kicked-up dust, Zant could see it. From his left hand, a faint golden glow shone through his gauntlet – empty but waiting, matching the deep black aura that wafted from him like licking flames. 

“I have no use for a peon that will not obey me,” Ganondorf snarled, pulling Ghirahim closer to his face before dropping him to the ground. “I will not warn you again, Blade.”

Zant followed him with his gaze as Ganondorf marched back to his former place. Their eyes met briefly, gold stumbling upon gold, and in an instant, that familiar scowl drilled into his consciousness. The same man, but not quite… Yes, with such a display of power, he’d decided. It was in his best interests to have this Ganondorf trust him. And so, he smiled at him in return, bowing his head in respect of his Master. Ganondorf grunted and continued his march, setting out for the tents that stood in the shade at the edge of the desert. 

“My home has been ravaged by vermin in my absence, and I intend to reclaim it. I expect you to join me in my tent for reconnaissance. Should you refuse, I will not hesitate to crush you along with the rest of the intruders.”

After nodding affirmatively, Zant turned again to where his fellow to-be commander was left, and found him sat up, panting and clutching his chest. He stared out in front of him but his mind was someplace else. Curiously, he approached him, cocking his head. He could only guess that Ghirahim had a similar revelation to himself, but was taking it far less in stride. 

Tentatively, he held out his hand, offering to help him rise. Someone ought to snap him out of it. “You recognized it too, didn’t you? That power.”

Ghirahim blinked, a haze clearing from his deep, large pupils. Before fully meeting his eyes, he had already swatted his offered hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

Zant straightened himself, towering above the man sitting before him, and retracted his hand to clasp them behind his back. 

A squint locked Ghirahim in eye contact almost too easily, and somewhat nervously, he stammered again to speak. “I did, but… How..?”

Zant broke the trap of his gaze and looked toward the tent, where Ganondorf had just disappeared into. “The very same curse that brought the Princess and her guard dog back for another round, I assume.”

Ghirahim rose to his feet, joining Zant in staring at the tent. He didn’t speak, still, just glared in deep conflict at the sight before him. It was almost pitiful.

And so, Zant decided to take off and kick his plans into motion. “You can do as you wish, but I am hesitant to make an enemy out of the Demon King. I suppose I will meet you on the battlefield, one way or another.”

Quite a few paces he walked alone, his helmet reassembling itself to spare him from the burning rays of the sun. Now thoroughly concealed, he felt safe grinning when footsteps joined behind him, slowly but surely.

“Zant? What’s keeping you?”

In just that split second, the sword spirit seemed to turn into an entirely different being. The Ghirahim he knew then was all points and edges, eager to drive his endless wit under his skin until he had no choice but to bite back at him. And while this urge to annoy him never left him, he was different, now. There was an undeniable softness to him. Words that once would have left his lips in a sneer now warmly lingered with genuine concern, sweetly sticking to his tongue like honey. 

It was a testament to how blades were not merely used to destroy, but also to mend, to cure. Bit by bit, he’d taught a sword how to care.

When Zant smiled at him in return, picking up after him in a rush, the desert sun sparkled in his deep black pupils. Zant joined his side soon after, relishing how his attention did not leave him even once. 

“The heat must have gotten to my head for a moment there,” he hummed. “We’ve come all the way from the North, after all.”

Counting on being out of earshot of their Master, Ghirahim chuckled, jabbing at the Twili with his elbow. “You can survive martial combat, but the climate gets the better of you? It’s embarrassing to wear your weaknesses on your sleeve like this, Zant.”

Zant scoffed. “Ah, yes. As opposed to wearing them with a target on your chest, of course.”

Were they subtle in their dawdling at any point, Ganondorf surely noticed his servants bickering behind him from that point on. With only a brief pause in his gait, he marched to the Palace. The Demon King was off to settle his final arrangements before bidding his most loyal men farewell, for good.

The evening of Ganondorf’s arrival was as celebratory as it was solemn. The governesses were as pleased to see their King in his full power as they took his arrival as an omen. The final stand was at hand, and the strategy briefing of mere hours earlier conveyed that Gerudo Valley would not come out of this battle unscathed. Any bit of leisure and merrymaking was precious, and as such, the wizened Court was masking themselves with as much cheer as they could muster. Ghirahim and Zant, seated at the end of the table reserved for those of higher military ranking, overlooked the governesses squabbling over opportunities to converse with the man who would change their lives for good. In between filling their cups and chattering amongst one another, on occasion, one of the women would rise, and approach Ganondorf’s seat to give him their blessings. To which the King, of course, took to with great warmth and integrity.

Among them was a woman with an empty stare, who gradually darkened and secluded in her own mind as the night went on. Zant recognized her as the head of foreign trade, who left an impression on him as a boisterous, steadfast woman. None of her usual sparks could be seen as she stood up from her seat and approached Ganondorf, who was caught in conversation with the governess beside him. 

“With the Seven to guide me, this ends today.”

Candlelight reflected off a polished surface not there seconds earlier. Taking shelter behind the backrest of Ganondorf’s chair, the Courtswoman pulled a dagger from her robes and thrust it toward the Demon King. 

It was a mess of bodies. Those who cowered in fear, and those who threw themselves at the assailant to wrestle her off of their King. Among the latter were even elderly women of the Court, whose feeble arms tore like paper under the meticulously sharpened dagger, the King’s retainers, and of course, his very own Ghirahim, who bolted toward her the second he smelled steel.

But before an obsidian blade could run her through, Ganondorf himself clenched his massive hand around the Chancellor’s arm. With a sweep, he flung her over the table, sending her skidding across the floor and into the hall’s central corridor. A streak of blood followed her, the ominous sign of falling upon her own blade. Groaning and heaving, but still fueled by rage, she rose in spite of her injuries. Blade in hand, her fierce drive to kill had not yet ceased.

The commotion all around the mess hall soon tested her resolve. As if melting into a single being, the shrieks and cries of enraged troops dawned upon her like a tidal wave, claws and calloused palms reaching for her in a mob’s desire for violence. 

“Halt,” shouted Ganondorf’s thunderous voice, sharp enough to crack air as if it were a thin sheet of glass. He raised a hand, forcing every single being in that hall to freeze on the spot. “None may approach her. We will hold Chancellor Meherat’s trial right here, and now.”

Those who were injured in the scuffle were promptly escorted from the hall, and a deathly silence befell what was once an infernal atmosphere. Though Ganondorf had forbidden anyone from nearing the accused, there was a shuffled footfall in the servants’ entrance, leading to the courtyard… The preparations for her execution were already underway. 

And what a foolish act it was! With the Triforce under his command, no mortal blade could truly harm Ganondorf. No, not even Zant dared dream of such a hands-on approach, now. The consequences of such a fit of passion were unfolding before him, a lesson of their own.

Those left in the mess hall arranged themselves in cold, courtly fashion. The commanding and governing forces seated in their makeshift magistrate, and the crowd of soldiers, their jury. Ganondorf leered, his eyes scanning the room to command its silence. Gazing at the center of it all, the trial commenced. 

An odd tone of pity stained his rigid voice with mockery. “Now, speak. What has clouded your judgment, Chancellor? Only pure madness could drive a woman of your stature to defy her King.”

“The only madness in this room lies within your own Court, Ganondorf,” the Chancellor snapped, resulting in a scandalized, furious heckling from the crowd behind her. She paid it no mind. “All our people wanted was peace – dignity! And you have befouled the noble name of the Gerudo by aligning yourself with demons. Monsters! Your actions are beyond the retaliation for which we rallied behind you. They are annihilation! There is no salvation in the death you rain upon Hyrule. What use is there to be found in a land we cannot thrive in? Every single one of you is blinded by vengeance! I will stand for it no longer.”

Ganondorf straightened in his seat, solemn, yet unimpressed. His countenance was calm, but the racket from the crowd surely could only stem from their King’s inner rage. “Then I take it there were no conspirators?”

“None that had to persuade me, Demon. My sisters are innocent. But mark my words – With every settlement you scorch, every monster you set free on your homeland, our people’s trust in you wanes. The streets of Gerudo City are ripe with whispers of your cruelty. There will be more like me! If I must die to set this example, then I shall face the Heroines with a smile!”

Meherat was manic, burning with conviction, even as the loss of blood rid her of the strength in her legs. Her eyes desperately sought support, or at least recognition in the eyes of the Court before her. Whether she found any, Zant could not discern from this angle.

Ganondorf sighed, crossing his hands before him on the table. His tusks bared, a flash of aggression amidst his air of grave stoicism. “It is a pity, Chancellor. I hoped to grant you a swift death.”

It was thus – Chancellor Meherat was to be put to death. Her bridges burnt, the love of her sisters lost, and the sound of her name condemned. A rich life suddenly thrown away in an assassination attempt that would never have worked, forged as it was in the blinding darkness of despair and twisted justice. All for the sake of peace. Peace. Peace. Peace! What hideous neglect, what decay, and what fetid blood had been spilled for that wretched word! Oh, how she had almost pinpointed the wrongs in this selfish King’s leadership, but as many before her, concluded so terribly misguidedly. A conclusion once shared by a woman of equal beauty, equal love in her heart, and equally bright, amber hair. 

Zant was snapped out of his train of thought by the splinters that jabbed into the underside of his nails. Fresh grooves tainted the dining table at his hands. His eyes tracing the pale wood he’d uncovered, he decided he refused to sit idle, and took the seat of Magistrate.

“If I may, King Dragmire.”

All eyes vested on him in an instant. He ignored the dark scowl already brooding in the shadow of Ganondorf’s bushy eyebrows. “Why not simply… Send her in exile? If it is peace, or dignity, as she says, that she desires, I gladly invite her to seek it with our enemy. Perhaps then she will fully realize how our brutality serves to shield Gerudo against that which the Hyruleans would happily inflict.”

Ganondorf clicked his tongue, but a smirk crooked the corner of his lips even still. “Your offer is as absurd as it is intriguing. I will not risk sending a traitor that threatens my army for the indulgence of a satisfying punishment.”

“I beseech you to consider,” Zant stated, his fingers interlacing on the table before him. “How many of our commanders have been captured, and when has this ever hampered us? All this crucial information they have doubtlessly forced from their throats, and yet, the Triforce is still secured in your palm, My Liege. There is nothing she can tell them that will harm you now, not when Hyrule Castle is so close to falling at your feet.”

Ganondorf narrowed his eyes. Whether he was genuinely considering it, or merely playing along to placate him, was difficult to tell. It kept him talking either way, so Zant didn’t quite care. The Gerudo continued picking apart his plan, perhaps to catch him in a fumble. “Who is to say she will not become a willing collaborator, rather than their prisoner?”

“We have sent spies before, Master, and nearly every single one of them has had their head mounted on a pike. Hyrule will consider her no different, surely.”

Ganondorf scoffed in laughter, “Very well. Guards! Seize the Chancellor. You are to escort her to the desert and ensure she does not return,” he demanded, his hand outstretched in the final verdict, emphasized with a clenched fist. His attention turned to the court member to his left. “Furthermore. Grand Mistress Kotoji, her name is shunned from this day forth. See to the eradication of her records from administrative documents. We will appoint her successor at dawn.”

The cogs in the machine started turning in an instant. Armed and shrouded Gerudo marched up to drag away the sentenced Chancellor, whose angered cries for the Court to join her cause splattered against the walls of every room she would traverse. The crowd was tense, her claims of more traitors running amok and the possibility that her enervated speech would hatch more of them, doubtlessly sowing suspicion. Surely, Zant’s suggested verdict, and the baffling acceptance of such a bloodless sentence, undoubtedly had a similar discordant effect.

The consequences of which soon beckoned him. As the table returned to a semblance of calm, Ganondorf summoned him with a snag of his eyes and a wave of his hand.

“You are walking a very fine line, Shadow Lord,” Ganondorf growled at him, sheltered by the uproar of the dining hall. “This battlefield is not yours to play games in. High treason, and you set her free? I will send men in her pursuit before sundown.”

“There is no need to worry, Master,” Zant smiled, bowing in submission to have his whispers easily heard. “On her own, without supplies, the desert will claim her before making it even a quarter of the way. Besides, to butcher their once-beloved Sister before their very eyes will give us an ill will from your remaining Court. Certainly, you know this too, My Liege, or you would not have accepted my terms.”

Ganondorf furrowed his brows at him, before leaning back in his seat, contemplating the hall before him in deep scrutiny.

His every breath was a test; Zant knew very well that Ganondorf suspected him. Did he not, he never would have sent the two of them here. Zant was peering into his open grave and awaited the firm-handed push that sent him down there with a grin. Not a shred of his reasoning just now had been a lie, but the plan itself was audacious – essentially an offer to send out a counter-spy scot-free. And yet, Ganondorf agreed with it. What did he have to lose, at this point? Very likely, he would do no worse. 

This Ganondorf was powerful and charismatic. He tore down keeps with his bare hands, wrapped countless court officials around his finger. His own Ganondorf had been lonely and bound himself to him thus – this One was less stubborn, in that way. But in that strength lay a fatal flaw: he was cocky. In taking them to this damned place, to protect a mission that could only fail, surely he thought he was rid of those thorns in his sides.

It was all too merciful. No, he was not soft, he was naive. Clearly, Ganondorf saw neither of them as a threat big enough to dispose of on short notice. So, before he could depart, what else could he do to burrow himself deeper in his ire? What punishments would they evoke? Reduce the number of his troops? Bait out an ambush? Would he see him poisoned, or cursed? Master, what could I possibly do to you, for you to slay me, right here, and now?

Zant would never get his answer. The adrenaline now worn off, Ganondorf had noticed a minor flesh wound by his upper arm and sought to have it treated. Just in case the blade had been poisoned. Bit by bit, the mess hall drained of people, and at some point, Zant had wandered out with some other crowd of them. The metallic clanking of his soles just barely made it past the ringing in his ears. 

Oh, indeed. Ganondorf needn’t worry. Not about Meherat, at least.

As he’d predicted, there she ran. So far away from the city, the gibbous moon and sea of stars shone vibrantly above, joining hands to light the way of this condemned runaway. Three hours since her banishment, and the sands already took their toll on her. Trudging through silky sands filled one’s legs with lead, he knew this intimately by now. Yet, she was making decently good time. Of course, Ganondorf hadn’t listened to his final call and sent an executioner’s party after her the minute his wound was flushed out. To no avail, however. The Chancellor was clever and well-informed, so much so that she’d swerved out of sight of the Demon King’s outposts that scattered sparsely throughout the deeper sand wastes. 

But not out of his. 

With no more rock outcroppings to hide behind, Zant could only shelter in the skies, a black smudge hovering against prismatic blue. But hours in the dark had made her eye too keen. She looked behind her once, twice, just to check, before opening her mouth in a soundless scream and breaking out in what she hoped to be a sprint.

He would not let his Master’s troops take this from him. Wind soared through his helmet, sand whipped up around him, and before he’d known, that panicked face was mere inches from his own, his fingers wrapped tightly around her throat.

“You are a kind woman, Chancellor Meherat – Too good, to survive in our midst. But that is precisely where our predicament lies. Hyrule would listen to you, for good people like you are exploitable, even if the chances of your rescue are slim…” Zant hissed between the two of them, looming over her while squeezing ever-tighter. “Forgive me, forgive me…”

Under the fierce grip of his hands, the Gerudo struggled, clawing at his arms and kicking at his gut with every ounce of might she still had. Before long, she at last grew limp and dropped to the floor, now free of him.

He recalled another being just like her, whose misplaced kindness in the end spelled doom for her people. And though his goals aligned with this one, he could not afford her getting in his way. So swiftly he struck her, his scimitar driving between her ribs, simultaneous mercy and execution.

“May the sands reclaim you, Chancellor,” he muttered in idle prayer, before kneeling down to hide a piece of parchment among her robes. 

He stood there, watching as the desert winds gently buried her, the light of the stars above brought him clarity. Now that he beheld her beyond the fog of his mind, her hair wasn’t as orange as he thought it to be. It was really more of a carmine.

Zant sat at his triptych mirror, begrudgingly accepting the assistance of the morning sun as he applied the black lines to his lower eyelids. His Dagger lingered about him as if he had any input on the matter, but soon found some way to fuss over him nonetheless. Fingers threaded through his hair, scratching pleasantly past the grown-out fuzz at the back of his head.

“I think we ought to preen you a little before we head to battle again, Zant,” Ghirahim hummed thoughtfully.

Finishing up his one eye, Zant puckered his lips, looking back at him through the mirror with a bit of a frown. “Already? Is it so drastic?”

“Your shave is growing out again. Just a touch-up, is all.”

And yet, he couldn’t help but indulge him. His eyes darted between his reflection and that of Ghirahim’s in the mirror, before he leaned back to resume accessorizing his other eyelid with a smirk. “Hmmm… Without Yuga to safeguard me, will I be alright, I wonder…”

“Hah! You doubt my skills, now? Some nerve you have,” Ghirahim sneered.

A dip of his brush in the bottle of pigment. “I wouldn’t dare. Yuga simply is a bit more amicable to my wishes, is all.”

“Only because he can’t stand the pout you give him when you’re uppity. Is this about those odd bangs you insist on growing out? Never did I know why you keep those,” was the response, emphasized by the grasping of his longer locks, which fell through his parted fingers like flowing water.

“... Well, ah,” Zant hesitated. Was such a subject appropriate? If it was, would it anger him? How forward it would be. In any other circumstance mere ethnographic fact, but with the bond they shared, carrying such implications! But perhaps the truth would settle the matter. 

He placed his brush down and rested his hands in his lap in a reserved gesture, avoiding his gaze. “In my people’s customs, that is where I will receive my braid, if I am to be wed.”

Ghirahim perked up at his words, his face subtly tugging at its sculpted features. He quickly retracted his hands to fold them at his chest. Picking at the edges of his gloves, he seemed conflicted as he considered his next words. “Right. Such matters will be of concern to nobility, once the war settles, of course.”

Zant turned to him now, gauging his expression in full. A worry lingered there, of neither wanting to impose nor be imposed upon. Did Ghirahim assume himself to be excluded from potential marriage candidates? To which degree did this trouble him?

Yet this troubled state joined hands with its twin, leaching into Zant’s mind. Though his own wishes on the matter were not quite aligned, to wed another than him could prove more politically efficient, down the line. He could never bear it, Zant decided, to degrade the first to profess his love for him to the ranks of a mere concubine.

So he banished the thought from both their minds, pulling Ghirahim into his embrace. For a moment, Ghirahim flinched, startled that the action could serve as a confession. These fears were quickly cast away when Zant craned his head up to grin broadly at him.

“How you fret over mortal matters! Ghirahim-ili, the red on your cheeks may fool me into thinking you might be of the same flesh and blood as I,” he teased, resting his chin against his chest.

The flush of his cheeks and ear only grew stronger. “If you so intend to mock me, you would do better to do so after fixing yourself. Your cosmetics are completely asymmetrical!”

Zant laughed, freeing him from his grip and turning back to his mirror to resume his daily grooming. “Alright,” he chimed, holding the brush to his cheek with care. “You ought to make yourself scarce either way, Yima Dinifen. My chamberlain will arrive with my breakfast any moment now.”

With just one knock at the door, a jingling of chimes announced a departure behind him, and the white shade in his mirror erased its presence.

And so, their days resumed. After Ganondorf returned to his post in the Temple, the pair were left to their own devices to prepare for the Hyruleans to take the bait. And take it they did, for mere days after the Demon King visited the Palace, the first scouts were sighted scurrying about the desert. Undoubtedly to catch a glimpse of their developing formations! 

Those glimpses would be allowed. The first days were ones of deception, of placing troops haphazardly in a feint, only to slaughter every last vanguard that would come looking from thenceforth. Zant’s hand trailed the map – they would have to route cages for their beasts to each corner of the field. That way, they could adequately trap their foes in the center of the valley, and whittle away at their composures.

So deep in thought was he, that he had not noticed his co-lieutenant joining him in their strategy room, laying a hand on his elbow. “Off in your own little world again? You mustn’t forget to relay your schemes to me, Zant.”

His mind struggled a moment, forcing itself through the barricade of his focus to direct his attention to the one beside him, instead. Yet when he looked upon him, with a gaze so tender yet hiding tantalizing conflict behind a shroud of yearning, that reluctance faded in an instant.

“All in due time, Ghirahim-ili,” he murmured, laying his hand over his. “What do you require from me, to approach me in such solitude?”

To be addressed suchly took Ghirahim aback for a moment. Ah, he knew this look. These were the characteristic signs of a very specific mood of his; where his mind was troubled, but he hoped to assuage it through physical affection. To correct his course elsewhere, where he needn’t think or discuss his woes. 

With their lives treading on such a fine line, Zant wasn’t interested in such avoidant behavior. Ghirahim was snagged on by the question a little too easily.

“With our Master’s true coronation so close on the horizon, Zant, I’ve been occupied with far more thoughts than are becoming of me. You’ve experienced the same, I'm certain.”

“Oh, when do I ever not sit and worry,” Zant giggled. He was tempted to press a kiss to his cheek but decided not to interrupt him.

“As you say,” Ghirahim laughed at his quip. “Among these thoughts were that of my future, but moreso of our past, and what it will come to mean. It’s childish, but I was reminded of the first words of love I gave to you. I thought then to have deceived you in giving you that promise, but now I know it is not so.”

Taking advantage of the loose occupation of his hands, Ghirahim guided his arm, making room for himself in-between, and stepped into his embrace. 

“This love, as you have described it, long I have assumed it as being entirely alien to me. Yet, with every minute I spend with you, Zant, my doubts about this long-held belief grow ever larger. I cannot ignore them now, because the contrary could not be more clear. The way you love, Zant, aligns with my own with every passing day. As does my love grow to resemble yours,” he began to wax, fondly amused by the red tinge he awakened in the Twili’s face. “And I find it perplexing, for us to be connected this way, for in being made of flesh and blood, you and I could not be more different.”

Ghirahim paused, taking a moment to capture his hand and behold their contact. Observing thoughtfully. “What makes us different, mortals and I, is that I know my purpose. The second I was forged, I knew what my existence meant for me, and I delighted in it. Mortal men- humans, I believe, you are listless,” he emphasized, now lacing their fingers. His expression darkened, losing its shine to a sullen face. “Fickle. Because there simply is no purpose but to live. Your myriad of choices blinds you, burdens you, whereas I have none, and I adore the way I am supposed to be. I thought I would never understand that restless sort of existence. But now I do. Master will not wield me.”

To Zant’s mortification, yet soul-stirring delight, Ghirahim grasped his hand tighter and placed it on his chest. In that moment of silence, where both of them held a breath, there was that song again. It chimed and pulsed so strongly he could feel it in the pads of his fingers. Those saccharine shocks resonated through his arm, pressing kisses to every nerve and sinew it tore past, and in its crescendo delivered its fiercest affection to his heart. It was a call, a plea for a matching pulse, saying far more than Ghirahim could ever dare to. Now, guarded as they were amidst the glittering shards of Zant’s mind, he would never have to.

Ghirahim winced as those fingers indulgently dug deeper into the skin of his chest, but soon grew to relish in it. “I cannot promise you my entire self, Zant. The thought alone could shatter me. A piece, however, I can afford.”

With a flourish of his hand, his velvet cape scattered into a glittering whirlwind of diamonds, warm like embers as they brushed by Zant’s skin. As his garment disappeared, Ghirahim leaned back, resting more and more of his weight in his arms, and baring more and more of his most vulnerable places to him. His lean neck, the underside of his chin, and more prominently so, the diamond keyhole at his chest. 

His breast heaved, taking a breath that never reached any true lungs, then dipped back down in a shudder. Zant felt his own chest tighten, his heart pounding to his ribs, as Ghirahim spoke his offer. 

“Reach within me, Twilight King. Take part of me, as you have taken a part of our Master. It is yours.”

***

Zant swallowed. He felt the pulse of his core behind his chest, concentrating at its center. With a jolt of Ghirahim’s body, that ivory surface cracked, revealing at last that silver gem, his hand curled around its facets. Anticipation tightened their bodies, for this contact alone, as profound as it was, would only grow more intense. To breach inside would require magic.

A deep inhale, wind brushing past a dry throat, expanded Zant’s chest. Such a feat could not be done without hurting him. To plunge his hand within him, even if done with utmost gentleness and intimacy, would not leave him unscathed. Months ago now, he’d picked inside the labyrinth of his core, but only ever with a proxy of himself. No, this was much coarser work. He would have to use his magic to pry him open and force his hand through the jagged crevice. To wrench free whatever he offered him.

Such a violent act… And Ghirahim trusted him to do it. He wanted him to. No, within his eyes, he saw. Ghirahim would be heartbroken if he didn’t. If he declined this offer, he’d bear the gift prepared for him like a lodged arrow until it festered out from him.

Summoning every inch of will in his body into this one hand, he prepared his incision. The magic such an act required made his peripheral vision turn pink and the sight in his heat pits red-hot and useless. Ghirahim winced when that barrier keeping him – him, his essence – safe from the outside world began to crumble. Yet it did not crack, it simply faded beneath his hand. Zant gasped in awe as his hand dipped beneath this permeable edge, and its disappearance bore to him a sight untold.

Crimson. Not sterile silver but a fiery red. What an astute metaphor it was! Beyond that cold, icy surface, to hide something so burning and true! Within him, a gem of cycling colors tucked carefully into a burning, molten cavity. It was black – no, red, or perhaps a golden, changing every second under the candlelight and the lively fire of his own being. A garnet, a ruby, a brilliant red diamond. He could only liken him, for doubtlessly, he was one of a kind.

“Ghirahim. You’re beautiful.” 

He reached inside, and it was warm. His hand sunk in effortlessly, circling his wrist with a bright white light. By the time his senses figured out whether that inside his core was an icy cold or searing hot, Ghirahim had tipped back, only barely caught by the arm hooked around his waist. Warm pinpricks tickled his skin, filling his hand with static at every twitch and curl of his fingers. Any sensible instinct that would tell him to recoil from the heat was smothered in an instant, snuffed out by the soft groans from Ghirahim that teased him for so much more. His fingers bumped into something. Leather-bound, and long, and… It fit in his hand perfectly.

It could only be a sword. How could anything else rest within his heart?

“Ghirahim,” he whimpered, “you must be certain of this. Once I pull this, you cannot take it back.”

The scabbard in his arms laughed almost belligerently as if annoyed for being addressed. Yet the big, black pupils that met his eyes were fond. “I know.”

Gritting his teeth, overtaken simultaneously by feeling and the burning of his skin, Zant pulled. He keened, for despite the blade being offered to him, it would not be unsheathed without a test of mettle. The very sword began to pull at him – not his flesh, but at his soul, draining him of his magic. It was then that Zant realized that Ghirahim did not trap him, or any of the sorts. The weapon was simply not finished. 

He needed his help.

His magic were like antennae, poking and coiling around the abstract shape of the sword. With every drop of energy that poured from him, he felt it sculpt into being beneath his touch. Double-edged, they decided, but with curvature. Corners and edges to hook rival swords and rip them from lesser hands. A weapon that favored brutality over elegance, but would prove to be both in capable hands. Hands that were now worthy of such a blade, molded into a swordsman by the very forge they stuck within.

Both men cried out in exertion with the final pull at the sword. Ghirahim arched as its pommel surfaced from him, followed by the grip, the crossguard. White-hot and glowing, the blade came free from his chest with a single draw. 

But before he could set his eyes upon it, overcome by his intimacy, Zant pulled his limp body closer and pressed a kiss to his jaw. A piece of him, in his hand, freely gifted, and smithed by their joint efforts. Here he now held his most prized possession. A stream of incoherent Twilit and Hylian bubbled forth from him, singing his praises about his beloved, about their bond. It was time to witness what they made together.

Zant held it before him, watching its prismatic white darken into a deep, all-consuming black, So dark was it that its surface hardly shined, save for its sharpened edges, for little light could leave it once touching it. Interrupting this deep dark was a pattern of glowing cyan, bleeding out from a magenta gem that graced its crossguard. A legendary artifact was made today, fit for the palatial treasury.

The Demon Scimitar.

Ghirahim turned his head to look at his shaking grip and let out a faint laugh. “It is a two-handed blade, you oaf.”

Delighted to hear him speak, Zant turned to his weakened lover, but frowned at his suggestion. “I do not want to drop you.”

“I’m right in your hand.”

Yet, he compromised. Leaning him onto his shoulder, he pulled him back upright. Just as when they lay together, Ghirahim was warm when he pressed his back to his chest. His heart was open, bleeding molten metal into itself. Such a precious thing must be handled carefully. Zant reached forward with both hands now to behold his gift, the sword spirit in his embrace holding himself upright by leaning his arms on his. His legs slumped, but his gloved hands laid gently over the ones grasping at the hilt.

Zant blinked, a smothered sob wobbling his lip, unable to take his eyes off their creation. “Ghirahim, it’s…”

“Beautiful? Breathtaking? The most perfect craftsmanship you’ve ever laid your eyes upon? Of course it is. It’s a piece of me, after all,” Ghirahim waxed, his voice tongue-in-cheek where it would normally be completely serious.

“Yes, Ghirahim, but not so simply,” Zant laughed, peering at the blade past the tender slope of Ghirahim’s neck. “It’s beautiful because it’s us.”

Tears ran down his cheeks. No one had ever done anything like this for him, nor would they ever, for Ghirahim was the only one who could. How he entered this land with vengeance and bitterness in his heart! Now, here he stood, holding the one he never expected to care for. After such years of loneliness, to be then coaxed into comfort, affection, and declarations as mates… How could he do anything but fall in love?

The sounds of his whimpers and the tears dripping on his shoulder drew Ghirahim’s attention. A gloved hand stroked Zant’s jaw, as Ghirahim planted a kiss on his cheek. “As easily moved as ever, aren’t you?”

Zant could only swallow, wheeze out a laugh. Between his hiccups, he took his one hand off the grip. Shaking out this arm, he lowered his sleeve, and bared his wrist.

Ghirahim’s amusement faded instantly. His voice left him in a snap. “What are you doing?”

“Should anyone else be the first to taint this new-forged blade, I would carry my envy for them with me to whatever wretched afterlife awaits me,” Zant spoke coldly, but a maddened spark tugged at his features. “The first blood to feed this sword must be mine.”

Shaking hands were stilled by a perverse drive for this vow, to carve into himself in a clean slice that honored such a blade. Its edge, sharpened so meticulously it shone silver, cut through his skin as if merely lingering in the air. Were it not for the sting of friction, and the dark blood pooling out from him, he almost didn’t notice being cut. A sharp gasp, sucked in through bared teeth, tore through them simultaneously as he stained their masterpiece red. Sated by the cold sweat in his neck, and the comforting, downy feeling that lulled his mind into silence, Zant smiled. Grasping the hilt in both hands again, he held it skyward before them, swelling with pride over the visceral union now proclaimed.

Two pairs of eyes stared at the fresh blood coursing down the sword’s pristine edge, as though the world around it had ceased to exist. There was only them, their embrace, and the pieces of them each had ripped out the other, in their joint hands. Crimson rolled down, staining grey fingers and white gloves alike. Zant sharply inhaled through his nose, but Ghirahim stayed deathly silent. Yet his back grew warmer, hotter, scorching pressed against his chest, and that song from his core returned. By no means a symphony, it screeched in one unanimous tone, his mind set on but one thing. 

In an instant, the blade was dispelled – shared, but Ghirahim’s body, first and foremost – and with it took its gift of blood. Swirling, churning, for as long as it could hold, to leave his trace inside the essence of Ghirahim’s self in near-permanence. It was a memento, a shred to attain immortality, to remain long after his flesh has rotten and his bones turned to dust.

His hands now free of a sword, but within his arms still holding another, Zant was frozen in place. A fierce grip broke him from his self-petrification and yanked him down by the collar. Lips crashed against his, clacking teeth and poking stray strands of hair into his eyes. But for all its aggression, to the Sword Spirit, no show of love could be more earnest. He drew his eyelids to a close and locked him in a reciprocated embrace, only to deprive this dark, stuffy room from any more of their affection. Shadows crept up on them from every corner of the room, hurrying to their master’s command. Shrouded in this black, the rustling of this magic enveloped them, to finally leave the strategy room empty.

[cyraspirit]

Fanfic of our favourite angel and demon who cause us emotional pain! Enjoy!

The lift to heaven was pure white. Its doors mirrored the pristine quality of freshly fallen snow. The ceilings were white, the floor was white and three of the walls were white. ​

Leaning against the back wall was a figure of black and red. Their fringe grown long from lack of caring was a perfect substitute for their glasses, though they still sat on their reddening nose. Beside the demon stood a tiny angel, her hands shaking.​

“You okay,” Crowley said, hoarsely.​

“Yes. Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” the trembling angel giggled, “More excited than nervous! I’m excitavous!”​

“Good, good,” Crowley grinned.​

The lift continued upwards, carrying an angel who was letting a demon into heaven (again) and a demon who was trying to find their love. ​

Though there was no music to be heard out loud, Crowley’s ears rung with the sounds of a long-ago melody, one which had played thousands of times in their head but only once out loud. Their heart ached for others, one other in particular, to share in the bliss this song brought, the bliss this song preserved.​

Light leered at the pair as the doors opened. Crowley’s fists clenched and they ground their teeth together like the hellhound named “Dog”. Muriel, however, was grasping and ungrasping her hands, making them turn an apple-red. ​

No one was there to meet them, or stop them. Crowley strode out the door, Muriel following closely behind them. They did not change their appearance to suit the setting this time; they were going to flaunt their identity to all those who would cringe at the sight of them and they would enjoy it. ​

“Umm, where are we going Crowley?” Muriel asked.​

Crowley didn’t answer. They merely kept facing forwards. ​

In the distance, Muriel could make out a tiny dot. It radiated control, joy and a zest for helping others. But, underneath the persona of complete fulfilment, a feeling of loneliness was being supressed.​

Aziraphale was grinning at their latest project. Those forget-me-not eyes alight with an overwhelming sense of pride in their achievement: if only they could call someone to tell them of something clever they’d done before they popped. ​

“Who’s that?” came the voice of the aged Metatron.​

Aziraphale looked around from the globe of wonder and their eyes came to rest on a figure sauntering towards them.​

Sunglasses fell to the floor with a clatter. They shattered and shards of glass flew through the air, piercing the tension which was growing between the deity of heaven and the demon of earth. ​

All movement ceased when they came within a few metres of each other. For the first time in months, Crowley’s eyes became a soft yellow-brown, reminding the world of the gentle demon living behind the mask of defeat. Water began welling behind two pairs of eyes; one for the flood of regret, the other for the wave of sadness. ​

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.​

They ran towards their demon, arms outstretched. Crowley stepped back. Muriel backed away into the Metatron. No one said a word. Even the song which had been running rampant in Crowley’s head for months died in the silence pressing in on them.​

“Crowley?” Aziraphale repeated.​

Neither could stop looking at the other but only one truly saw the entity before them. ​

Crowley noted the golden laurel sitting upon Aziraphale’s curly head and the cleanliness of their sharp suit mirrored that of the Metatron’s.​

“So, how’s ‘heaven’?” Crowley air-quoted the last word with disgust in their lemon eyes.​

The Metatron’s eyes narrowed. Muriel looked at the ground, silently agreeing with her friend’s gesture.​

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, “It’s wonderful! You would love it…” they stopped at the demonic laughing emitting from the demon.​

“Oh, so you do know what the word “love” means. And you can say it,” they emphasised the penultimate word with every fibre of their being, still reeling from the final words of their lover in that bookshop.​

Aziraphale looked confused, their eyes misting to mirror a cloudy day. ​

Crowley shifted their hair from their eyes, better displaying the agony emanating from their soul: it had gone from a stunning yellow to a murky substitute over the last few weeks when they realised they had not dreamt the bookshop episode. ​

“I-,” Aziraphale fumbled.​

Daggers were ripping at their heart strings, letting their heart fall to the pit of their stomach. It crashed there, breaking into a million pieces. The flying ruins stabbed their insides, replacing the elation they had felt mere seconds ago with excruciating agony.​

“I poured my heart into those words; you poured your pride into yours.” ​

As Crowley spoke, Aziraphale caught the scent of alcohol on Crowley’s breathe. Mixed with utter loss and betrayal, the smell was intensified. The realisation made Aziraphale’s eyes water; they truly began seeing the Crowley of the present rather than the Crowley of the past. Their clothes were crumpled and had streaks of brown on them. They were slightly torn in places as though they had been clawed at in fits of fury. ​

“What… happened?” the angel asked.​

“Someone killed my best friend,” the demon replied.​

At these words, Crowley lunged at the Metatron, lifting the tiny man from the floor.​

“Crowley! Crowley, don’t,” reasoned Aziraphale.​

The radioactive yellow of the eyes glaring at the Metatron dug into the sharp-suited man’s eyes. They were full of hate and unforgiving.​

“Whatever you did to my friend, I will do something six thousand times worse to you Mr Floating Head,” Crowley growled.​

“I look forward to the attempt,” he smirked. ​

Crowley was so absorbed in making this man feel as much guilt as godly possible they didn’t see the look of horror on Aziraphale’s face.​

“Crowley!”​

They let go.​

Crowley looked around at the angel who had, once, always taken their side, regardless of how reckless. No understanding could be found in either pair of eyes, only abandonment. Little to no hope remained in the angel’s fragmented heart or in the dying soul of the demon.​

The silence seemed endless.​

Crowley groped for a spare pair of sunglasses, realising showing their true feelings was a mistake; they found none. Instead, they flattened their hair against their reddening forehead and turned away.​

“I…,” Aziraphale stuttered.​

“Don’t. Just, don’t,” Crowley yelled.​

As they sauntered towards the lift door, they took a phone from their pocket. It was playing a stunning melody of blissful joy. ​

Crowley let it slide to the floor, allowing the music to reverberate through the halls of ‘heaven’.​

The lift doors slid closed; Crowley didn’t look back.​

Aziraphale started towards the phone. They stopped mere inches from the screen.​

There, lighting up the cracked glass, was a picture of a Nightingale.

[donald4spiderman]

blurb i promised based off of this thread

for @subbyspencereid @spencerreidscoffeecup @boldlyvoid

TW: kissing, grinding, sub!spence, m exhibitionism

-

Being with Spencer makes you wild. Knowing that you share your own dirty secret, the fact that you live in your own little world— it only adds to the bliss you experience when together.

The moments where you sneak a kiss onto his lips when no one on the team is looking; the dirty texts you exchanged on the jet; the glances; the smiles— knowing the both of you could get caught any minute is part of the fun.

Your relationship is still in its infancy. It’s been three months since the first time you’ve hooked up, and two since you declared your relationship official. Spencer was once an innocent boy— he still is— but you’ve slowly began corrupting him.

It’s a lazy paperwork day at the BAU. Nothing too serious other than working out some bureaucratic red tape. You haven’t seen Spencer outside of work in a while, the both of you have been too busy solving cases. You exchange lovesick grins for a few hours, working in quietly.

He looks so damn delicious dressed in a dorky sweater-vest and cotton button-up. You’re the only person who knows his socks are blue and green, one with dinosaurs and one with sharks. The thin wired glasses perched on his nose fall down every so often, and he pushes them up with the pad of his finger. He’s just so... fuckable today.

When Spencer stands up, presumably to fetch another coffee or to head to the bathroom, you follow. He passes the kitchenette and shuffles towards the men’s room. The door shuts behind him, and you wait against the wall of the empty hallway.

Your ears perk up as you hear the faucet running. A few seconds later, Spencer emerges obliviously, drying his hands off on his slacks. You wordlessly grab him by the collar of his shirt, slamming him against the wall.

He kets out a squeak as you press your chest flush against him, bringing your hands up to cup his cheeks.

“Hi.” You whisper before crashing your lips onto his.

Spencer stills in shock for just a moment. A beat later, his lips begin to move against yours. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, settling for gripping his own shirt to keep them busy. He’s more than happy to let you be in control.

You feel hip push his hips outwards as your hand travels down to firmly squeeze his neck, desperate to receive friction on his aching cock. The fact that you take charge, that you’re so much more dominant than him, makes his knees weak.

You pull your lips off with a smack, “Sorry, I just missed you.”

“Then don’t stop.” Spencer groans.

You fulfill his request eagerly, and without a care in the world you resume feverishly making out with you boyfriend in the middle of Quantico.

[multyfandoms-imagines]

Hello! It's me the ABC OT3/Traffic Light Trio asker again. Thank you by the way for your latest post fulfilling the fluff and angst request for the three of them so long ago. I greatly appreciate it.

I hope you're okay with me asking another request so soon for some more fluff headcanons with Ayin, Carmen and Benjamin again. If you're not, feel free to ignore this ask.

May I please request some wedding fluff headcanons between Ayin, Carmen, and Benjamin? And possibly some domestic life bliss headcanons such as snuggling in bed or cooking in the kitchen together?

Thank you very much in advance if you choose to fulfill this ask.

These 3 share one braincell, trust me /jk

Story spoilers

Ayin, Benjamin and Carmen headcanons

•ultimately its Carmen and Benjamin's job to make sure Ayin get out of the facility/house and get some sun and fresh air

•Ayin is an introvert, he no like going outside. He prefers to stay indoors and enjoy what he has

•Benjamin and Ayin need to hold back Carmen with her ideas and "too much energy" vibe. She can get carried away in her own fantasies and plans to help people to an absurd level

•Benjamin appreciates her enthusiasm but please calm down. They cant do everything Carmen says and she by herself cant do so either

•all 3 are in good terms with the (pre LC) Sephirahs, considering them their family even

•minus Binah/Garion cus u know

•Ayin is not good at expressing his emotions well. But he cares in his own little ways that you wouldnt see Ayin do to someone he didnt care about

•Carmen tries to help him with it lol

•Benjamin sometimes does little trinket-inventions as a sign of friendship. Every Sephirah has at least one tricket like that

•Ayin gets sandwiched between Carmen and Benjamin when they have to share a bed. But he aint complaining

•Ayin is the one to wake up first, but when he cant get out of bed without waking up anyone, Ayin waits for them to wake up

•Carmen may or may not had put her legs over his and Benjamin's bodies while she slept because she keeps moving too much even in her sleep lol

•Benjamin wakes up 2nd and likely the one to let Ayin out of bed so that they could start their work properly. Carmen only wakes up when her alarm clock rings

•Ayin has a bad habit over hyperfocusing on his task to the point its not healthy. Its usually Benjamin who gets him to stop and take a break, while Carmen is the one to bring him food because, well, these 2 have a very important job. It may need some time spent like that if they want to meet their deadlines

•they like to have Enoch and Lisa around them, but never thought about starting a family before

[liaromancewriter]

Que Sera Sera

Premise: When Ethan and Cassie agree not to have any children, little do they realize life has other plans for them.

Book: Open Heart

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine)

Rating/Category: Mature. Angst

Trope: Accidental Pregnancy

Warnings: Deals with mature themes, issues of infertility and complicated pregnancies

Words: 2,370

A/N: This fic is for @lucy-268 who wanted to read a story about Ethan and MC agreeing not to have children, but finding out that MC is pregnant resulting in a showdown. It's a difficult topic and I'm not a medical professional. Most of what I know is from research and experiences of friends and family. So, please excuse any implausibilities in the setting.

A/N2: This is a one-off fic and not connected to the narrative universe that I have created for Ethan & Cassie in all my other stories.

Cassie Valentine would always remember this day as one that forever changed the path of her life. Even more so than the one that had led her to defy her family’s expectations and land a coveted internal medicine residency at Boston’s Edenbrook Hospital.

To follow in the footsteps of her medical idol, the Doctor Ethan Ramsey; learn from him, fall in love with him, and eventually marry her forevermore.

Their relationship had had its ups and downs. Angst, drama, romance, humor ─ sometimes it felt like a kaleidoscope of emotions barraging them from all sides. And the fact that they had not only survived the blitz but came out of it stronger was a testament of their love for each other.

Still after four years together followed by two years of wedded bliss, it had been time for a sea change. To extend their family from two to three and hopefully more in the future.

But today was not that day. Nor would it ever be that day, as Cassie and Ethan discovered following an appointment with her OBGYN.

Previously undetected uterine fibroids, they were told, leading to infertility. Not only could she not get pregnant, but if she were part of a small percentage of women that defied expectations, there were too many complications that could impact her health and that of the baby to take the risk.

Pregnancy was off the table, but the couple had other options if they did indeed want children.

Cassie remembered holding Ethan’s hand as they heard the diagnosis, of seeing her unspoken dreams of a family drift away without ever being more than a whisper in the wind.

She recalled the way they had left the doctor’s office and gotten in the car to drive back home; the dazed look in their eyes as they took the elevator up to their apartment.

And she recollected that Ethan had never wanted children in the first place. Expecting to see relief on his face as they sat across from each other on the couch, she was shocked to see grief and resignation.

She reached for the hand in his lap and laced her fingers through his. Together, they sat in the silence, taking comfort from each other’s presence as they began to plan for a different kind of life.

Several weeks later, having discussed their options, both Cassie and Ethan came to a mutual decision that if they couldn’t have children of their own, then they would not consider adoption or other avenues that might be available to them.

From now on, it would be just the two of them, forever.

Three years later…

When the strip on the home pregnancy test turned blue, Cassie knew she was in big trouble. Not only that but she had defied expectations once again. This time though the consequences were bigger and potentially life threatening.

No one could ever accuse Cassie Valentine of taking the easy road.

The question now was, how on earth was she going to tell Ethan the news? They had agreed to forgo children when fate and medical science decreed it so.

They had a good and fulfilling life together. They had their careers and each other. That was enough. That had been enough all these years.

Now it was a colossal mess.

She was still trying to process the last fifteen minutes when there was a knock on the bathroom door.

“Cassie, are you alright in there?”

“No,” she said, knowing that lying to him was an impossibility.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone neutral.

In response, she opened the bathroom door and slapped the home pregnancy test into his palm. She was done dealing with it alone.

His eyes darted between the stick and her face, his eyebrows snapping together. “Is this a joke?”

“Yes, the biggest one of all,” she said, pushing past him to sit at the edge of their bed.

All of a sudden, the events of the last two months had started to make sense. The fatigue, the cravings, the mood swings and the nausea that she had thought was a result of their island getaway and bad shellfish.

Ethan was still standing in the doorway to the ensuite, looking perplexed and just a little bit angry.

“We can’t do this,” he said finally, coming to stand in front of her. “There’s no way we’re going through with this, not after what the doctor said.”

“We don’t have a choice, Ethan,” she responded calmly. Inside, her heart rate was going a mile a minute.

“Cassie, you…us…this,” he stopped, unable or unwilling to voice his thoughts.

He sat down beside her and took a deep breath, closing his eyes as light tremors ran down his body.

“I can’t lose you,” he said desperately. “You’re my entire world and I don’t want to live a life without you in it. No one is worth that, not to me.”

“Ethan…” she began, rubbing her hand up and down his back in comfort when he hunched forward. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“I know it’s been three years, but have you forgotten what Dr. Olyzza said, Rookie? Your condition plus your age and family history put you at an elevated risk of a difficult pregnancy. The chances of you carrying a child to full-term are miniscule. The risk of you losing your life as a result of pre-term labor complications is higher.”

He turned towards her, his hands clasping hers in a painful grip. “Do you remember Dolores Hudson?”

“Of course, I remember her,” said Cassie. “She was the first patient I lost. She was one of your oldest friends.”

“Don’t make me go through that again,” he said urgently. “I will not go through that again.”

“Ethan, the decision is out of our hands now,” said Cassie, willing him to understand.

“No, it’s not and you know it,” he fired back, pushing away from her as he stood up.

Cassie gasped as the meaning of his words hit true and she stared accusingly at him.

He bolted out of the bedroom and Cassie heard the front door of their apartment slam shut in his wake. Folding her hands across her still flat belly, she glanced out the window at the twinkling city lights below and wondered if there was a way back for them from this.

Several hours later, she was still awake, stretched out on their bed and waiting for Ethan to come home. Her texts had gone unread and her calls unanswered. If she wasn’t sure that his passport was still in the safe, she would have thought he’d jumped on a plane to the Amazon…again.

It was three o’clock in the morning when she heard his keys in the door. She stayed where she was, still hurt and angry at the words left unsaid.

She saw shadows shift on the floor as he entered the bedroom, and still she did not move or say anything.

The mattress depressed as he sat down on his side of the bed. She heard him remove his watch, his wallet (the drawer opening when he put it away) and the sound of the phone as he plugged it in to charge. And still she remained as she was.

He climbed into the bed; Cassie felt the covers move as he got comfortable. And then he was spooning his body around hers, pulling her close so that her stiff back was pressed against his warm chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over again, trailing kisses down the side of her neck. “I’m the worst human being in the world and you have every right to hate me. I hate myself too for even thinking for one second that…”

She heard him swallow loudly, his throat constricted by the thought of words best left unsaid.

“I don’t hate you,” she said eventually, turning in his arms so that they were lying face to face. “I’m scared too, Ethan. But for whatever reason, this pregnancy has happened. We weren’t as careful as we could have been, should have been. We both fucked up.”

“Yes, but…”

“No buts,” she interrupted. “It is what it is and the sooner you come to grips with it, the better it will be for both of us.”

“We need to see Dr. Olyzza,” he said when the silence between them became unbearable. “Neither one of us is an expert on this and we can’t make any decisions until we speak to her.”

“Agreed,” said Cassie. “But if this pregnancy can proceed without undue harm to me or the baby, I need your promise that you will accept it and not fight me every step of the way.”

“Your promise, Ethan,” she insisted when he didn’t respond.

“I promise,” he said at last, squeezing her hand to show his sincerity. “Whatever it takes, that’s what we’ll do.”

Six months later…

Whenever Cassie Valentine would think back to this day in the future it would be with awe and delight, forgetting the massive dose of apprehension and fear that had gripped her and Ethan in that moment.

She had been feeling out of sorts for days, her feet so swollen that she’d gotten to wearing fuzzy slippers at work (and outside of it). Everything irritated her, from how long the elevator took to reach her damned floor to why Ethan’s perfume made her want to vomit. She’d always liked it before but now it was Public Enemy Number One.

And if one more person asked her how far along she was or if they could touch her protruding belly, she would not be responsible for wishing that person a long drop down an elevator shaft.

So, when Ethan came to pick her up from the Diagnostic Team’s office to escort her for a check-up with her OBGYN, she was in the mood to fight. It was just too bad that he was unwilling to accommodate her, recognizing the signs in her eyes and deflecting any attempts to start an argument.

“Just give me one good comeback,” she pleaded when they got into the elevator. “I need to scream and shout and as my husband you’re obligated to fight me.”

“I think pregnancy has scrambled your brain, Rookie,” he said, pressing the button as the doors closed behind them. “I don’t recall seeing the word fight anywhere in our vows.”

“It’s implied,” she shot back.

“Nice try,” he said dismissively, leading her out of the car and trying not to smile at the mulish expression on her face.

She could be a real diva on occasion, he thought. A brilliant, beautiful and entertaining drama queen, and always his.

They were halfway down the hallway when she screamed, doubling over in pain, her hand dropping out of his as she instinctively clutched her belly. Tears streamed down her face as the pain intensified and black and white spots appeared before her eyes.

Whenever Ethan Ramsey would think back to this day in the future, he would remember the bone-deep terror of seeing the love of his life faint before his eyes, unresponsive to any of his attempts to revive her.

If it hadn’t been for one of the nurses that had rushed over upon hearing the commotion, he wasn’t sure that she would have gotten the help she needed.

Others had carried his wife to an empty gurney, taken her vitals and paged her physician while he stood there useless, his medical training and experience forgotten. It was too soon, was all he could think. It was weeks too soon.

He stayed in a daze as they rushed Cassie to the operating room, signing forms thrust upon him without reading or caring what they were. His one goal was to be with her or watch from the observation deck.

These were the two actions he was blocked from taking by Harper Emery, Chief of Surgery, who had heard about Cassie through the hospital grapevine.

She had led Ethan to the waiting room, using her upper body strength honed from years of doing backbreaking surgeries to push him back when he tried to step around her.

In his head, Ethan knew he couldn’t be in there with Cassie. He wasn’t Chief of Medicine now or even a doctor. He was a patient’s husband and an expecting father. His heart, however, had a hard time reconciling Doctor Ethan Ramsey with Mister Ethan Ramsey.

Before he could launch one more offensive against Harper, her pager went off, the sound loud in the empty room. She checked it, glancing up to meet Ethan’s eyes.

“She’s alright,” said Harper quickly. “They’re moving her to post-op now and you’ll be able to see her shortly.”

“And the baby?” asked Ethan, swallowing hard as he hoped against hope.

He thought back to the night he and Cassie first learnt of the pregnancy. And the deep conviction with which he’d said that they were not doing this. He could admit now that that man had been an idiot.

“The baby is premature at 32 weeks, but otherwise healthy. They’re moving him to NICU. Someone will be along to escort you.”

Ethan stood there listening to Harper and sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was listening. He knew post-op complications from pre-term labor and premature births were still a concern.

But for now, he would enjoy the miracle of having his wife safe and sound and his baby ─ he had a son! ─ on the road to recovery.

A few hours later…

Cassie woke to the familiar sensation of Ethan’s hands holding hers. Eyes closed, he was half sprawled on a chair that looked uncomfortable for someone of his height

Still feeling woozy, she reached over to brush one hand over his hair and waited for him to wake up. His laser blue eyes snapped open, and they stared at each other.

“Well?” she asked, anxiety in her voice and on her face.

A grin broke across Ethan’s face as he closed the distance between them to kiss her lips. “Ten fingers, ten toes and he’s as beautiful as you are, my love.”

Smiling, they snuggled close. Their family was now complete. They had defied expectations once again.

Perma-tags: @jamespotterthefirst @starryeyedrookie @genevievemd @forallthatitsworth @queencarb @ohchoices @coffeeheartaddict​ @openheartfan @udishaman @danijimenezv @potionsprefect @quixoticdreamer16 @schnitzelbutterfingers @mainstreetreader @tsrookie @bex-la-get @chaoticchopshopheart @headoverheelsforramsey @thegreentwin @dorisz @silma-words @custaroonie @pixelnutrookie @adiehardfan @parisa-kh @takemyopenheart @dickgraysonsscrumptiousbooty @jerzwriter @choiceskatie @mia143 @mm2305 @a-crepusculo @barbean @beastlyinstrument @electroniccreatorwerewolf @rosebudde @lucy-268 @blainehellyes @crazy-loca-blog @writer-ish @pixelberrygirl @wanderingamongthewildflowers @trappedinfanfiction @rookiemartin @openheartfanfics @choicesficwriterscreations

[simplegenius042]

What if Joseph’s siblings started hearing the Voice in Far Cry 5?

Unsure if this scenario would include Joseph still hearing it or not hearing it anymore, or even all the siblings hearing it or just individually happening to one of them but that’s not what I want to focus on.

Honestly, I believe the reactions of John, Jacob and Faith would vary.

I’d expect John and Faith, Joseph’s most reverent siblings, to have their belief in Joseph strengthen even more.

John could be initially confused at first due to being aware that his behaviour doesn’t exactly fit Joseph’s or God’s principles, though I’d like to think he’d be honoured, though perhaps feeling slightly unworthy of it? (Not entirely sure, I still haven’t gotten the siblings completely figured out)

Faith though might just be ecstatic that her faith in Joseph has proven to be justified or something along the lines of that (it’s not the word I want to use but it’s close enough).

Jacob though? Hah! That reaction is one I want to see. He said in the game that “[he’s] not sure if Joseph talks to God”, so this is something that could actually shock him. Though he could brush it off as nothing more than an effect of the Bliss or even an accidental side effect from his own conditioning at first. I feel like he’d want a logical explanation. Though as the Voice becomes more persistent, and doesn’t go away, this could just lead him to having a mini crisis before his loyalty in Joseph strengthens even more knowing that Joseph is most definitely right.

I’d expect the Voice would sound as it does in Joseph: Collapse (kind of like Joseph but distorted and omniscient), so that might bring some level of comfort to the siblings, considering they trust Joseph.

But how would they fair against the Voice when its’ suggestions and encouraging start becoming more…sinister? Not unlike the benevolence they initially believe it had? Just as it had been to Joseph in his DLC? (as much as I disliked the DLC, I honestly did enjoy the malevolence and manipulative nature that came from the Voice)

What if the Voice tired of Joseph, viewing him as ineffective to fulfill its plans? Conspiring to rid of Joseph?

Maybe use him as a sacrifice as the siblings had been in the game? (not something Joseph wanted to happen in the first place).

Or even wanted to speed up the own siblings sacrifices?

Whatever the case, would John, Jacob and/or Faith recognise what the Voice was doing immediately? Slowly recognise it’s manipulations? Would they be faithful and submit to its wishes, despite it leading to the possible death of Joseph (for a good cause of course, says the Voice)? Or would they resist? Warn Joseph?

I think out of the three, Faith would be (kind of) quick to recognise its manipulations first. She’s an expert at twisting pretty words to convince people to join the Project, so the Voice’s subtlety and layered malevolence/threats won’t go past Faith. Not to mention, Joseph did give her a new life and purpose, so I doubt she would turn against Joseph just because the Voice likes the potential she has (especially with the Bliss).

Jacob might be slow to recognise the manipulations (or could ignore them all together), but I’d like to think he’d resist the moment the Voice compares Joseph to the weak.

John though, I’m conflicted on. Realistically, I don’t believe he’d attempt to undermine or usurp Joseph. But there’s also a part of me that has to wonder… if the Voice plays with John’s self-worth, perhaps promises that his soul will be welcome to the Heavenly Kingdom and its loving embrace, and/or even warnings that Joseph is leading the flock astray, would John be tempted? Even act on it? Who knows what would happen…

This is something that I’ve been wondering after playing Joseph: Collapse DLC and reading some rare fics of the Deputy (or even John in one fic) hearing God’s voice (I say God here instead of the Voice because the latter didn’t debut during the fics release and is now established as an entity in the Far Cry franchise).

Hope you enjoyed. Reblog and comment your own thoughts to add on if you wish, I really don’t mind.

[laindtt]

❈ FC5 Cult Zine 2021 contribution ❈

I had the pleasure to take part in the 2021 edition of the Far Cry Cult Zine: it’s been a wonderful opportunity to write articles about the Collapse, the Angels and the Bliss and to share  some love for Eden’s Gate  with the community while having a lot of fun joining a unique project. A big warm thank you again to @juniors0possum​ for all the hard work and your patience with me, you’re amazing ♥ And a big thank you too to you all of you for the likes and the reblogs!

My three articles are available below the cut, in their “director’s cut” version: for the purpose of the page layout, some parts had to be canceled ‘cause yours truly is unable to be brief enough :’)

You can find the whole zine here, enjoy!

❈ The Collapse ❈

 Finally, it’s coming.

An insatiable fire is consuming the world, as the mountains are shaking and the forests are bent under the merciless breath of the Lord. The sky is now an ocean of stormy clouds, and soon there will be nothing left of the old world, this decadent and rotten living hell that none of us will regret.

The Father was right. His Holy Word was nothing but the purest truth and we, the lucky ones who have welcomed his love into our hearts, are the privileged witnesses of this beautiful chaos, this apocalyptic salvation. The damned and the weak, the politicians and the corporations, the big cities and our modern society built on sin, the skeptics who chose to remain blind to the sufferings around them, the ungrateful who demeaned us for all these years, all of them know their last moments, devoured by fear and agony. In a single scream, they celebrate a truth we knew for so long thanks to the Family and oh, God, I must confess, it is so good, I can almost hear them over the sound of the bombs. It is the sweetest music we could have wished for to say farewell to our previous lives, definitively. Our houses are destroyed, the fields are burning just as the lakes are boiling, and soon the ground on which we were born, have lived, loved, laughed but also suffered, cried and lost so much before joining Eden’s Gate and working so hard for our survival will be reduced to a desert of irradiated ashes ; it is what we have been prepared for, what our hearts prayed for during countless days. Sorrow and fear have no place in our souls, not at all: nothing but joy overwhelms us as we are eventually freed from all that kept us far from the happiness we deserve, we the angels, we the chosen. Humanity has been lost for so long, our acclamations salute with relief the righteous wrath of the Divine cleaning the Earth from its corruption. The reckoning is here.

Gathered in a small makeshift bunker, we join our hands and pray together: we thank the Heavens for delivering us, we thank Joseph for having shared his visions with us. Sadly, we don’t know where our Father is, nor if he is even alive. Some say he has faced this evil Deputy one last time, this bloodthirsty demon who destroyed our Gates and nearly condemned us to the same death as the unbelievers, but no means of communication can allow us to contact the others who, with the help of God, have hurriedly found a shelter too when the bombings started. We are on our own, without our dear Heralds by our side and to be honest, I am not even sure if we have enough food and water down here to survive till the world is reborn. We had all the supplies we needed in the Gates, the wait could have been so safe and comfortable, all reunited in the bunkers the Seeds built for us. John, Jacob and Faith should have been with us. Joseph should be acclaimed as the Prophet he is. But hope remains, just as we do, and our faith will not waver. It will be difficult but we will make it: their sacrifice will not be in vain. We will survive, like we always had, even without our Shepherd, even if the Heralds were more than worthy to watch the Prophecy be fulfilled and are deeply missed.

We have been trained for this. We have been cleansed from our sins to be able to build a future for our children. We have walked the Path and been rewarded for this.

In seven years, we will step into the light and get reunited to build a new world. I don’t know if I will make it myself, but at least some of us will and it’s all that matters. My soul will be with them whatever happens ; this thought warms my heart, as a new tremor makes the walls of our small haven quake.

 Together we will march to Eden’s Gate. The Garden will welcome us with open arms. We just have to wait a bit more.

  ❈ The Angels ❈

 Tirelessly, they walk upon this land, ghosts of flesh, white carcasses mumbling snippets of our holy songs.

 They are the pawns of the Henbane River but you can also meet them in the Valley, working at the Green-Busch fertilizer factory or following our patrols along the trails. From the most secluded places where our Project blooms to the compound of our beloved Father, we have learned to live with them by our side, like second shadows hanging around, waiting for a new task to achieve. To be fully honest, even if all God’s creations are beautiful and all the accomplishments of the Project deserve the greatest admiration, I must say that they scare me a bit. Even with their head shaved and their mouth forever hidden by a muzzle, some of them remind me of my former neighbors, eyes turned white by the Bliss and faces tarnished with bruises. And I may be wrong, but… Some of them sound like some of my brothers who went missing after aggravating a Chosen, don’t they? A chill makes me shiver nearly every time I hear their slow footsteps behind me, as they drag themselves barefoot, head haloed of a light green mist.

Make no mistake about them: they are fierce protectors of Eden’s Gate, not the grotesque zombies from the Hollywood horror movies. They work hard in the flower fields in the East, like no other member of the Family for sure. Day and night, never tired, never thirsty, never hungry, never weary, they are eager to help and would do anything they are asked for without any hesitation or discontent. And you should see them fight like madmen against the unbelievers who threaten us, or the wild beasts haunting the woods! Their rage equals the one with which the Lord will clean this world when the Collapse comes. As you watch them screaming with full lungs, running to their target only armed with a knife or a hoe, your heart can only be filled with a powerful awe mixed with a vague and deep terror, believe me. Nothing could stop them, fear itself seems to have abandoned them to their unending slavery. If the Judges created by Jacob are undoubtedly the strongest of the pack and the best version of themselves, revealed by the serum, the Angels are… Different. Their name may let you think they are peaceful and soft creatures, and they do belong to the Garden, equals of the Children of the Father; nevertheless a part of their humanity has been sacrificed so they can be free from sin, and that makes them unpredictable, turning from stillness to savageness in a heartbeat. Thank God they are on our side… Even if at the slightest sign of rebellion, I won’t hesitate to shoot them right in the head, those damn scary bogeymen.

If I had to put it in a nutshell, I’d say they are as eerie as Faith is divine. We are blessed to have our Siren guiding our Angels on the Path, preventing them from turning into monsters, just as the Father protects us from the sinners and from vice. Like a puppeteer, our sister cherishes and leads them onto the righteous path, living reminders that too much Bliss can quickly get to one’s head… All of a sudden, serving the Project as the most humble recruit seems way more enticing, after all. There are worse ways to enter Eden.

  ❈ The Bliss ❈

 There is a place here, in Hope County, that doesn’t appear on any map.

 It is said to be in the Henbane River and if you ask several of the followers of the Project here, each of them will give you a different description of it, but with the same delight on their faces, the same wonder in their voices.

You don’t need any compass or any trail to find it, a simple sip of the glowing water from the river or a puff of the green vapors pouring from the barrels all around the three regions will do. You just have to have faith, in a word.

Once you’ve abandoned yourself wholeheartedly to the gleams dancing before your eyes, you’ll enter a world of wonders like no other. The grass is softer than the softest meadow, the mist all around you is a comfortable blanket embracing the world. Mythical animals thrive here in peace, wandering among the flowers and between the twisted trunks that chart the way to a peaceful tree. Oh, to sit under its leaves and to listen to the soft breeze…

Believe it or not, but a Siren lives here. Her laugh is as sweet as her grace is flawless, as she dances and sings along, a queen gently guiding her guests into her realm. If you’re lucky enough you could even witness a group of worshipers gathered around a Prophet, drinking every word dripping from his lips like honey.

 It can be yours, you know. All of this. Just take her hand; a leap of faith is all that it costs, a one-way ticket to the Garden on earth. The Path is clear at the very moment when you believe.

[justalittletomato]

Make me Yours(smut  Darth Maul X Reader)

(SMUT 18+ please be responsible with the content you read. )

A/N: I mentioned I had some more of this sort of content coming up, and here we are. Here we have three categories, angst, fluff, smut, and more fluff as well as overuse of the word Goddess. Enjoy and as always be responsible for the content you read.  Read more as always on these 

Summary:  They haven’t done this, oh but how they wish too, its new and frightening and everything he should fear. Her tenderness soothes such worried and her kiss is a promise. 

Warnings: penetrative sex, unprotected sex (let me know if I need other ones) 

His connections to others had been limited, seeking to bring pain or only receiving it in return. With only a tether to reach for revenge. This was all he had ever known.

Slowly, a new connection had begun to form, unlike the rest it this was foreign from all he had known and frightening. Love was unknown and always silenced. He should be running from this or trying to destroy it.

To admit weakness was to admit defeat, leaving one open to attack, a strike to a heart left vulnerable.  Yet, here he was in this darkened room with his Starlight. Both beings bare to the other with only candlelight to guide them.

In his memory fire was never gentle it claimed and ate away, but here the candles flickered casting a soft glow to the bedroom. He had never known fire to be almost tame until now.

His Starlight straddled his hips, she wasn’t frightened despite having her bare flesh atop of cold metal. As always she waited and sought to ensure that he was alright. Her fingertips tracing the tattoos around his eyes, there was nothing but love in her gaze. Never had another being referred to him with such tenderness, her hands now holding his face, she asked again if he wanted this.

Never had he been given a choice. His hands moved from the silky sheets to touch her, marveling at the soft flesh of her thighs under his hands, her small gasp was encouraging. She never feared his touch. His hands moved from her thighs to her hips, entranced on how someone so beautiful could be in his grasp. She was ever the responsive type, a breathy sigh heard as those hands went up over her sides and higher brushing over her breasts. She arched back slightly letting him marvel and touch where he pleased, her pretty moans indicative of her enjoyment.

Normally, he was rough in these circumstances, thier time behind the library shelves evident of that. Both of them often having to tug up collars and pulling clothes back in place to hide the marks they left on another.  Those instances were always heated, nothing like this.

She adjusted herself slightly in his lap, the motion causing his cock to brush against her, he couldn't help but moan at the friction. His Starlight moved once more, again another moan threatened to break through but Maul put a hand over his mouth to trap it. She moved his hand away, “ Don’t hold back, Maul. I want to hear every lovey sound you make.”

Long ago he learned not to cry out, not to show any outward display of emotion that did not encompass anger. Now in her arms such actions were sought, they were encouraged. He was able to cry out, moan, shout, and scream; it was an offer he couldn't refuse.  Golden eyes were illuminated  in the darkened room lit only by candles, “As loud as I want?” he needed her confirmation, his Starlight nodded, “And as much as you want.”

Her hands explored his bare form as he did with her, running from his shoulder, down his muscled chest and stomach, to the v shape of his hips, reveling at the groans he gave as she teased lower. they Traveled back up to rest over his atop his hearts, their beats thrumming under her palms, “ Are you nervous?” she asked this only a short distance from his lips, one small movement and they’d touch.

“It’s many things, I can’t name them all,” he confessed leaning a bit so their lips brushed, it was a ghost of a kiss quickly eclipsed by pleasure when Y/N rocked her hips to get closer, her core again teasing his cock.

He wanted nothing more than to throw her down on the sheets, desire pulsing and raging under his skin and causing him to ache.

Maker, the things he wanted to do, ravage her and make her his completely. To curb  these temptations his hands moved to touch and grip at her chest; in his haste his nails pressed a bit too deeply. Y/N yelped at the sudden prick of pain.  Maul immediately released her, arms pulled away and hands balled into fists.

He could feel his nails press into his palms, sharp too sharp for soft skin.  He could already see crescent indents forming at her breasts.  He looked away, he had ruined this already. Her hand reached out to stroke his jaw coaxing him to return back to her, “ You got a little carried away ,” her voice calm, “That’s alright. “

Maul  furrowed his brow, “ Please don’t try to make light of this. This is dangerous. I haven’t..” he pauses, “ I haven’t done anything like this for so long.” he didn’t even recall the first time, and now all those years of isolation, denial of any affections and unreleased rage had sparked these desires to hold down and mark, “My kind can get violent in such moments.”  

Rather than push him away like any sensible person should  Y/N leaned in closer, y e/c eyes bright and her cheeks turning shades darker, “OH.”

She was ever so eager to find out, he could hear it in her small sound of surprise, the notion made him shiver, she truly wanted this. She wanted him. He needed to hear her say it, “Yet you still want to do this, with me?”

Y/N shyly smiled, “ Very much” she kissed his cheek to assure him, “Shall I lay back now?”

They weren’t getting out this…

“Yes,” he breathed, Maker, please let me take her.

She did as requested, her hair laid out on black sheets, as the candles flickered and glowed casting light upon her.  Now Maul didn’t believe in deities but in this moment Y/N was truly a Goddess before him. She smiled at him and spread her legs apart, already aroused by his touch from earlier and the promise this would be something to remember, his cock twitched at the sight.  

Maul placed himself between her legs, staring down at her all laid out for him. Yes, a Goddess was a fitting name for her now. He brushed the head of cock against her folds, already moaning as he began to push in slowly. His own sounds of pleasure echoed by Y/N. Despite her moans, she had to hold him back before he moved in too fast, no matter how good and full he was making her feel, “ You have to go slow, my darling.”

Human and Zabraks together were rare, and the size difference was evident when they first ventured into this. His cock was wider and ridged nothing like a human, without proper preparation, Maul frowned at his overreach. Her body was inviting and warm,  

he wanted nothing more than to just loose himself. But that would hurt his Goddess, he wanted none of that.

Y/N could see his hesitation, “ Just go slow at first, I’ll tell you right away, for now just start slowly,” Maul placed one hand by her head the other helping to guide himself further inside her. He seemed to calculated for such as task, his brow ridge furrowed and his usual scowl deepening. She couldn’t have him like that,  “ Kiss me as you do it.” his Goddess beckoned, Maul relaxed slightly and did as she asked.

Thier lips gently moved together as Maul pushed in between her folds. Focusing on the kiss and making sure to savor each moan she let out.

Maul was already groaning into their kiss, how could this feel so incredible already? He pulled away to look at her, Y/N’s eyes shut and biting her lip as the first ridge was almost done, “Just bit more.” she moaned.

It was permission to continue, instead of his hand gripping the black sheets he laced his fingers with one of her hands the other gripping the pillows behind her. The first ridge was in, the lovers moaned together. It was only the first and Y/N was in pure bliss while Maul kept trying to resist the urge to just sink inside her all at once. He had to resist.

Maybe this was already too much, without warning the ache he had felt increased and caused him to shout, Y/N mewled as he spilled inside her. He shouldn’t have done that, maker could he not even last?

He tried to pull away only for his Goddess to grab him by his shoulders and tighten her legs around his hips, “Don’t…. Don't go.” her already darkened cheeks deepened more, “It’s fine, please don’t go,”

She still wanted him, Maul leaned back in, and nuzzled agains her neck as she whispered into his ear, “ That just shows me how much love I still need to give you, you’ve been without it. So please let me love you.” he lifted his head to kiss her, “You’re too good to me.”

 He took his place again and pushed in further, this time as the second ridge went in Y/N hitched her breath, there was pain, but it was engulfed by how full she felt, Maker humans were ruined now, and he wasn’t even all the way in yet?

“Can I keep going? “ please say yes, he was struggling to make assurances while nestled inside her, all he wanted was to drive his hips forward and bury himself within her.

“ Yes, oh yes,” her answer breathy, “More,” the hands on his shoulders gripped a bit tighter, “ Give me more”

How could he deny her or himself that?

Her hips wriggled, desperate to feel him and take more within her. Each movement bringing Maul to moan as he fulfilled her request, with a groan the last ridge went in.

“OH. Oh Maul” she could cry, it was almost too much, the tinge of pain was present for now. The Zabrak was groaning, grasping at the sheets stopping himself from just slipping out and slamming into her, “ Can I move?” he begged,  “ Goddess, tell me I can move please?”

Goddess?! Maker, he was everything.  She wanted to say yes, oh how she wanted to say yes, “ Just a moment,” she whispered. He listened, slightly grimacing as he had to hold himself back again his nails almost piercing through the silk sheets, and his breaths grew ragged at his efforts. As Y/N’s pain subsided, pleasure began to eclipse her every nerve. She willed her hands to move down  to his arms and have him lace their fingers together, Maul waited with bated breath to hear her request, “Please move ” she was not one to beg but calling her Goddess would do it, “ Please love me.”

“As my Goddess commands,” instead of keeping thier hands joined Maul took the chance to hold her wrists down against the sheets. Y/N heart raced.

Their hips pressed in tune with another, starting slow, he had to be gentle for now. Her parted lips let out whispered praises at the delightful feeling of Maul’s cock slipping  in and out of her. Her eyes half closed and body ever so responsive to his slightest touch. Now this was an exquisite sight, one that would burn in his memory, as well as the remarkable sensations of her pussy enveloping his cock with each thrust. Slow and paced with groans and moans, it was all wonderful, but it wasn’t enough.

He could have had this earlier on, he let go of her wrists, opting to lay kisses along her throat and collar, while his hands moved to hitch her legs higher on his hips. He reached even deeper inside her, Y/N’s eyes rolled back as he was now brushing over that mark inside her each time, “ I can take it if you go faster,” she needed him to do it, “Oh Maul please.”

His control was falling away, fueled by his Goddess requests.  

Their movements picked up pace, Y/N let out a startled cry at the pressure building inside of her. Leaving her gasping as each thrust found its mark inside her. She wouldn't last like this, each time his cock slammed into her just right.

Her hands moved to clutch at his back, nails dragging down his muscles and leaving faint scratches that had him groaning. “ Your perfect” another thrust, “ Incredible,” she gasped, that pressure now burning her,  “ I’m…” she didn’t get to finish as she screamed her release. Maybe it was her cry that finally broke him, but what happened next was Y/N trying to come down from her high only for Maul to just ram into her without care, he wanted to hear that scream again.

She didn’t try to stop him, she wanted all he could give her.

The gentleness he so tried to carry  was gone overtaken by the need to ravage and devour, he pulled all the way out to look down at Y/N panting, her eyes dazed and body shivering from the loss of his touch, Maker, he was responsible for this. he slammed his cock back inside her, each thrust driven by the satisfaction that those cries were his doing. He was making a mess of her, the sounds  from her lips and body were sinful and echoing through the room. If a passerby would walk past the doors they’d know the screams of a divine Goddess being pleasured and his own growls to keep away, she was his alone.

There was no tempo to his thrusts now, just  desperation to feel and pleasure them both, Y/N struggled to hold onto him, to bring some tempo, but she couldn't stop herself from pushing him on, “ More…more” her hips would be bruised after this, “ Please..please more,” again that pressure in her belly, “ Make me yours!”  Maul took that command into his hearts, placing his hands on either side of the head board and did as his Goddess asked.  

1..2 the bed hit the wall.. 3..Maker..4… she could die right now and thank him. “Mine..” he chanted with each slam of the bed, “ mine…” that burning feeling was encompassing him again, with each movement he was getting closer as he ravaged and fucked her. “ Let go, Maul,” his Goddess managed to breathe out, another loud slam of the bed, another breath, “ You're beautiful like this, let go.”

Maul snapped, screaming as he came. iHe was burning, but it was a fire that he didn’t want to escape from. She screamed as he filled her again, coming undone for the second time that night. The burning receded, and the headboard was relinquished, Y/N was still shaking from what had just happened, Maul moved his hands to either side of her face, “ Are you alright?”

His usually piercing golden eyes had softened to a glow, pretty dazed honey eyes gazing at her y e/c.  How should she answer, “I never want to leave this bed” instead she smiled and pulled him in for a kiss, “ My beautiful, “ another kiss, “incredible,” another kiss, “ divine, love of mine” each little praise and kiss had him moaning again, and more so as her kisses moved from his lips to pepper all over his face.  

His starlit goddess’s praises were answered prayers, each little touch and kiss a sign that she had answered him.  One last kiss on the lips, this one sweet and slow, a sharp contrast to the absolute mess they had made of another.

She groaned as he slipped out of her evidence of what they had done now spilling onto the sheets. Part of him wanted to take her again, but Maul could resist it, his Goddess needed rest. He forced himself out of her embrace and out of the bed, her hand reached out to stop him from leaving, she wanted nothing more than to just slip into sleep with him at her side, “We have to get you cleaned up my Goddess,” with little effort he lifted her from the bed, one arm under her knees and the other at her back. There was that name again, her cheeks burned, “ I’m no Goddess,” she whispered as he carried her to the refresher.

Now he couldn't have her in doubt not after she had so lovingly took him into her bed and granted him such pleasures, “ I beg to differ, such a divine creature is worthy of such a name and gets treated as such,” Y/N didn’t argue with him only blushing more with each compliment, “ May I give you a name as well?” she whispered, “ It won't be as good,” he was slightly surprised but intrigued, “ What name will you bestow on me?”

“ Dawn,” she let a hand cup his cheek, “Its in your eyes, at times a harsh golden light at others more gentle in hue and each time I look forward to seeing it,” she gets one more kiss, “I look forward to hearing it more,”

“ You will, my darling Dawn. I promise you that.”

[dumbdemonslayertexts]

random excerpts from black girl time travel kny au

Pairing: rengoku / oc

note: lots of angst mostly. forgive me for this not being y/n format i have to work up the chops to be graceful enough to write that

tagging @dudeandduchess and @adoriable and @tengens-bunny bc they sparked the greatest muse i’ve ever had to write fictions since i was like 14 literally wtf you are my queens???!?!

even with her mind working double overtime to secure her discomfort, the serenity if the rengoku estate could not be diminished. imene tried her hardest to remember any time prior to her time shift where she saw the moon so brilliantly illuminating the earth below it. each blade of grass, every stone in the garden reflected its glow; the whole of her surroundings were accented with such a pure silvery lining, giving a beauty distinctive to the night alone. it was tranquil enough for her to eventually draw a cleansing breath through her lungs, which finally released some of the staleness of doubt and second guessing that had filled her self image lately.

“you are awake still, imene-chan?”

that voice struck her in her chest, shooting sparks of heat and flutters in her stomach. and the fact that she was hearing it meant he was home. safe. and home.

“imene,” she softly insisted, making him smile as though he were being teased.

“imene.” his voice was warmer when he said her name, she would swear to it. and it stirred in her heart almost painfully with the need to hold him forever.

“i couldn’t sleep,” she shrugged off her dilemma, far more preoccupied in the happiness of seeing him, falling into those gorgeously untamed eyes and sweet smile again… “i’m happy to see you!”

“kyojuro.”

when the depth of his rich tone interjected his name, it caught her by surprise. and, true to form, he hadn’t needed her to say a word before reading her thoughts and emotions with complete accuracy.

“wh–?”

he lessened the distance between them, tucking his chin to sustain her eye contact where she sat, “imene… would you say it for me?”

the shadow of pessimism in her brain was shouting. he was easing the lines of formality as a kindness—-it was his vibrant character and nothing more. why was she so dense as to not even understand that? why did a simple name make her world feel brighter, and have her smiling to him, lovestruck?

“kyojuro.”

he smiled. with utter bliss, he smiled at her, exhaling like she’d lifted a weight from him. “ah… i prefer that, i think… don’t you?" 

just like that, the playfulness was back in his voice and eyes. though, another element felt as though it had been added unto it. one she was far too daunted to even hope to name. so she changed the subject. 

"how’re you feeling..?” she asked, lifting herself to stand, “you’re not hurt anywhere, are you? did you get any sleep or did you come right–”

she’d closed the remaining space between them as she fretted over him. ginger, worrying hands grazed butterfly touches up his chest, and the moment she’d made the mistake of tenderly cupping his face, his grin vanished… along with the delusion of pleasant standing she had dared hoped for with anyone there. it took so very little, but reality struck her like frozen lead. 

the subtlest way she could, imene lowered her touch away from him, even as she felt stony ice fill her stomach at his reaction. she could feel how he’d stiffened just before she took her hands away. so then, at that very second with how clear things had become, finality settled into her. still, she wished he would have just lunged his blade through her gut instead; the pain would have been so much less. 

“i–” kyojuro tried his best to play off the disgust, to turn the awkwardness in any other emotional direction. the poor thing even had the courtesy to look remorseful—-very convincingly, at that. god, how noble could one man be to still be kind and gentlemanly even now, trying to play off repulsion as he so obviously was? “no, i am not injured, i am feeling well! but i wished to return home as quickly as i could once i’d fulfilled my assignment. so, yes, i made the decision to return directly. i hope you haven’t been up out of worry for me.”

he was even back to beaming a smile by then, close-eyed and cheerful. she could only give half the heart in her attempt to smile back, barely nodding to acknowledge his answer. the bolt of dejection was still scalding in her chest, trying its best to well tears into her eyes.

“what is it?”

he asked after she’d broken eye contact with him for a time. imene had needed the privacy to blink down the urge to cry. 

“i’m …ready to go back to oyakata-sama’s estate. but i was kind of worried of how much trouble it would be to ask if he would take me in a second time… i didn’t know if it would be rude to him,” she tried to sound as casual as she possibly could, asking softly, like it were nothing more than a passing thought over an inevitable eventuality instead of a conscious decision of hers. but from the look on kyojuro’s face, she may as well has torn a hole through him.

“has something happened?”

he was so concerned. kyojuro sounded so hurt and concerned that the prickling of tears threatened her lashes again. even with his aversion to her, she could not stand to see someone so sweet and kind be hurt. “no…”

“please, imene, if you were upset by anything that happened while i was away–”

“i wasn’t, kyojuro,” she insisted, pleading.

“are you unhappy?” he asked. and it broke her heart to hear just how willing he was to remedy whatever issue she may have experienced just by the tone of his voice, especially after just returning from a mission, “you don’t have to hesitate to tell me if I have failed to host you well.”

“you haven’t failed anything. i’m not unhappy. but I can–” dread made the words catch in her throat, but it was too late for her to retract anything now, “feel that I’m making everyone uncomfortable." 

she waited for him to say something, but the flame hashira only looked at her in pained confusion, stunned and churning his brain to unravel her meaning.

"your father does not want me in your home, kyojuro. i’m a stranger to him—-in fact, I’m pretty sure he can sense that i don’t belong here,” she explained. he was faintly shaking his head, but even with the urge to protest, kyojuro could not deny that truth. “and senjuro–”

“he adores you,” kyojuro desperately interjected. her lips parted to negate it, but he continued before she could. and suddenly, there was a visible glimmering in his sunborn eyes, “he’s told me. many times, everyday we spend together. you…” his face softened from the accosted state she’d frozen it into earlier, and he paused his hurried explanations, “ease him. from our father. even though it is nowhere in your responsibility, you comfort him.”

“him liking me is just going to strain things between the two of them even more,” she shook her head, trying physically to mash the stress out of her temples, “that can’t be worth it, i don’t know how long I’ll even be in this time!”

“you would be surprised at its worth, imene." 

her conscience screamed at her to look at him, and she refused for as long as she could… just for knowing how gutting it would be to do. decency prevailed over her to finally grant him enough to at least meet his eyes, though. and the way his soul cried out to her through them left her destroyed. 

"i’m so sorry to have made you uncomfortable in my home. you needn’t worry about speaking with oyakata-sama, that is my responsibility, i will take care of it.”

he was resigned and sullen. It was almost impossible to tell with how genuinely he retained a positive outlook despite anything, but imene could see the sadness shining in his fiery stare, even with how radiant his grin was. she could also note how the sure grip of his sword had lessened to self-soothing strokes with his thumb at its hilt. “In the morning, I’ll make the arrangements for you. …I hope you believe me, imene, about senjuro. It’s been some time since he’s had …a loving woman around him. he isn’t likely to remember our mother well. what you’ve given with your presence is precious to him. priceless, I would say.”

he gave her an elegiac curve of his lips, and the water blurring her sight conquered her at last, dripping tears so heavy they fell straight to the ground, without a trace left on her cheeks.

“as for our father… he has been this way for a while. it is him. or, it’s what he has become, not a result of your being here. his callousness falls onto senjuro and myself normally, but I suppose you provided a new outlet for it …” he sighed, “it doesn’t excuse my negligence, but i will speak to him, you have my word.”

when she swept her eyes free of more accumulating tears, she felt kyojuro’s palms encircling her arms. it was a touch she had been desiring from the moment these feelings for him had begun to surface, yet when she felt it, she recoiled as if she were burned.

“imene,” he begged quietly. she still tried to keep her tone even.

“but you, kyojuro.”

confusion seeped into the misery soaking his expression, and his brow curled again to search for some hidden meaning in her words. his hands were away from her, though, the instant she showed discomfort.

“you’re the most uncomfortable around me of the three of you. you’re disgusted when i come close to touching you, you can’t even stand to be near me, in the same room, you’re always double checking to see if i’m up to something down every hall and in every room, and around your brother—-i can’t stay here and make you feel like that in your own home! especially when you’re out saving people and risking your life constantly! why would you even want me here if i make you so ill at ease—why would you want to come home to that kind of feeling after all you do!”

she hated how much heat she could feel under her skin–behind her eyes, in her cheeks and nose, at her ears. even more, she hated the pinched and congested whine her emotive state rendered her voice to, like some indignant child. it was humiliating to say aloud to him—-to verbalize just how awfully her self-regard had been eaten away, and to at last face it herself. now her cheeks and chin lay adorned with sheening wet streaks. she couldn’t hide any of it any longer. stillness followed after. not a word spoken, only the amplification of her breaths rattling and struggling to calm against rengoku’s measured silence. 

when she could bear to raise her head again, imene could see him in what looked to be a deep epiphany. a terrible one. like his actions had only know processed into awareness for him, and had left him reflecting in horror. 

“imene.”

he lifted his eyes enough for her to come into view, and his own lashes were starry now, blacker with the moisture accumulating at their base, in spite of the soft grin he wore, “i’m afraid i have to correct you. you said i haven’t failed in caring for you well. but i have done exactly that.

"would you come and sit with me,” he propositioned when she said no more. he’d expected nothing less when she could only look away from him with clenched, leaking eyes, so clearly pained that it ripped his heart to shreds. kyojuro was patient to await her answer, and held out his arm for her when she surprisingly accepted. imene had assumed that they would both share the space on the engawa she’d taken before his return. instead, he lead them to a more secluded area of the estate’s garden, on a stone bench that provided ample view of the night time, and allowed an unstifled breeze to cool them both that she greatly appreciated. 

“i must apologize.”

“you did already.”

kyojuro glanced over his shoulder, hearing her delicate assurance. it surged through him, littering his skin in goosebumps. 

out of consideration of how small their shared seat would be, he had crowded himself at the corner by her side. it allowed them both room for their legs, considering how widely his sat apart, but he could admit there there was a high element of shame that made it more difficult to face her. “yes, and it is not at all adequate for how i’ve hurt you.”

every time he spoke, sounding like he cared, she could do nothing but weep more. somehow, in spite of everything, his sympathy hurt more than anything else. and made her feel horrible for not being acceptable. “you can’t help how you feel, rengoku-s–”

“kyojuro." 

his eyes met hers with stone solid conviction that she couldn’t understand. for someone who disliked her so palpably, he was intent on establishing friendly casualness between them that gave her a migraine trying to comprehend. his next words went far enough to bring a knot to her brow. "you’re right, i can’t. but to have acted on those feelings so poorly is shameful." 

"acted on them poorly?”

“you were manifested in oyakata-sama’s estate. a refugee he deemed to have been brought here for divine reason. he is our leader in this fight we have undertaken against evil. he is the head of our organization, to be honored and respected.”

“it seemed that way,” her faint voice commented.

“yes. for that reason, and more i can’t explain now. understand, if my master says to me that you are precious, to be cared for, i wouldn’t ever dishonor that, nor you.”

now he’d given her her own shocking epiphany. it was slow to unravel itself with how meticulously he explained, frustratingly peeling away with the more he revealed to her in this less than receptive state that her mortification left her in.

“i wished to fulfill the role of your caretaker as best as i could. but as a hashira, i am frequently called away for extensive periods,” he gradually began to turn himself round, now diagonally beside her rather than perpendicular, “you are out of my direct sight for so long that i force you to tolerate my overcompensating once i return. i want you adjusted well, to not be overwhelmed or confused, or grieved with being alone. i wished to watch over you closely in case you were to need me.”

“oh…”

“and your nearness…” he began again, “imene, you were brought here under my protection. not only for me to oversee your healing wounds, but for your safe keeping all together. you are my charge. but i took this upon myself before knowing you—-i was not prepared for you to be so gentle and loving, and to possess warmth that i have not felt in so many years. you emanate affection–your spirit could even bring out playfulness in tokito-san. and your strength is one i have only seen in one other in my life." 

she wanted to cry again, now. and was well on her way, hearing this perfect man speak of her so glowingly. out of nowhere. 

"your peculiar beauty was something i was prepared to disregard. i am from a family of uncommon features; i willed myself to overlook the uniqueness of your eyes as many do mine, and to not be stricken with the comeliness of your hair, or with the beauty of your delicate complexion—-one i have never seen, and that i now will never forget. i convinced myself of it only being the allure of one sent from the heavens. i was mistaken, and then overcome." 

"you—-” her voice broke, weighted with the sobs fighting to bubble out of her chest, “i don’t understand…”

“you are the most beautiful woman i have ever set eyes on, imene. my dreams could not even create anyone nearly as bewitching. and i swore to ignore it, until you showed yourself equally as beautiful in your soul.”

▷▷ part 2

[laurfilijames]

Hiii!

So it’s not exactly a milestone follower celebration, but being the dirty-minded woman I am I couldn’t help but make a little tribute for reaching...

*drumroll please*....

💥69 followers!!!!!💥

“It ain’t much, but it’s honest work.” I say to myself as I once again write a filthy, self-indulgent smut piece starring the one and only Anders Johnson.

He was the natural choice for this, the PIN numbers for all of his credit cards are 6969 after all…

I have been wanting to write Anders fics for a while now and have a couple of abandoned WIPs stashed away so hopefully this will inspire me to write more for him since there simply is not enough content for such a sexy asshole like him.

I appreciate each and every one of you and it still boggles my mind that you choose to follow me and my smutty nonsense, so thank you!!! You all mean the world to me!

(E rated fic below the cut!)

Lip Service

(A 69 Followers Celebration)

Words: 1,433

Pairing: Anders Johnson x female reader

Warnings: Rated E. Smut. Oral sex (M/F receiving). Swearing. Implied casual sex. Unprotected sexual acts

Summary: Anders spends the night. Your activities continue on into the morning and your current sleeping position prompts Anders to engage in the exciting act of 69’ing.

————-

You woke up slightly confused. When you opened your eyes, you looked up to see the usual view of your room from the other way around, which meant you had fallen asleep upside down in your bed.

How did that happen?

Oh. Of course.

You smiled and bit your lower lip, recalling a particular position in which you were-- well, it was very creative to say the least.

You propped yourself up on your elbows to see if your generous guest remained beside you, but you were alone.

Anders must either be in the shower or making coffee.

You laid back down, your body exhausted from a long night consisting of multiple rounds of intense sex, deciding it was best to fall back asleep and ignore the mess of pillows, clothes and the contents of your nightstand strewn across your room.

Thankfully you were off of work today, so you could stay in the comforts of your bed as long as it pleased you and you hoped Anders would stay and add to that pleasure too.

He had wound up in your bed almost every night this week, not that you were complaining, but you typically only heard from him occasionally and it made you wonder if he was finally wanting to commit to something. That, or he just appreciated your time together as much as you did. Either way, it was perfectly fine with you.

You heard him stride confidently into your room, but you were too tired to open your eyes again to see what he was doing.

Letting out a contented sigh you allowed your body to relax into its deliciously sore state, the blissful sensation of sleep starting to take you over again.

Anders approached the bed, still naked and freshly showered, and took in the display before him.

You were looking divine, blankets barely covering the perfect curves of your body and making his dick harder by the second.

You had this way about you that no one else could compare to and Anders found himself never able to get enough. And it wasn’t just the sex either, he wanted to actually spend time with you. But even if that meant spending time in your bed, it was a perk he was willing to accept any opportunity it was presented.

As much as he was the one who was a god, he couldn’t help but worship you as if you were a goddess.

He took a quiet step forward, stopping when his knees hit the edge of the mattress and bent forward to plant a kiss on your forehead. You looked completely peaceful and relaxed, probably still feeling the effects of the many orgasms he had provided for you throughout the night. He thought of all the ways the two of you had ended up entwined together and he didn’t doubt just how tired you were.

Anders moved his lips forward, this time lightly grazing your fluttering eyelashes that rested on your cheeks. You hummed slightly, but he could tell you were still on the brink of sleep.

He moved further still, his lips landing on your nose and then your lips and Anders decided this was a nice place to linger. He softly brushed his lips over yours to part them and gently introduced his tongue to your warm mouth. The mismatch of your top and bottom lips created a playful challenge for him as he continued to move his against yours, each touch increasing the growing want he had for you yet again.

He kissed a trail down your neck to your collarbone, enjoying the quiet whimpers that began spilling from your mouth. Anders placed one of his knees on the bed in order to reach more of you, now hovering above you and very eager to place his lips on every part of your body.

His mouth skimmed over your breasts and the sensation of his wet tongue flicking against your nipple had you wide awake in an instant. You couldn’t suppress your excitement and you arched your chest into him to encourage more of his attention, a giggle escaping you when he complied with fervor.

“I knew you weren’t sleeping,” Anders said in a low tone. He brought himself completely onto the bed to lay on his side and he thought how convenient it was that you were positioned the opposite way.

You started to shift, wanting to move so you were no longer backwards on your bed and facing the same direction as him in order to continue kissing, but he had other ideas.

“No, no, stay where you are,” he ordered.

Before you could protest his mouth was on your core and his hand was pressing against your knee to spread your legs wider for him.

“Fuck, Anders!” you called out, praising his masterful tongue. You allowed yourself to indulge selfishly for only a moment before reaching your arm around him, grabbing his full ass to pull him closer to you. You were eager to return the favour and Anders didn’t offer up any hesitation as he shifted his hips toward you.

A moan of ecstasy made your mouth fall open, giving Anders the opportunity to nudge the tip of his oozing cock past your lips.

You gladly took him fully into your mouth, swirling your tongue around his girth and pushing him deeper until he was entirely encased by you. You pummelled your own throat repeatedly by bringing his head as far to the back of it as you could, each time slightly engaging your gag reflex but making you all the more determined to blow his mind.

Literally.

You loved sucking him off as much as he did, tasting him and breathing in his musk and every pass of your tongue on his length made more wetness pool between your folds from the pure satisfaction of giving him this much pleasure.

Anders showed his appreciation of your efforts by plunging his tongue even further inside you, the stubble on his chin scratching against your clit in the most exquisite rhythm. He ate at you vigorously, his enthusiasm clear and more than welcomed by you, causing you to reciprocate with equal excitement.

Whether his intensity increased from you expertly fucking him with your mouth or him simply enjoying your body’s response to his ministrations, you weren’t sure. All you knew was both of you were determined to shatter the other and savour everything that was given to you.

You were perfectly synchronized, fuelling each other’s fire and equally bringing the other closer and closer to the edge. You already found yourself beginning to tremble against his touch, every movement from him igniting all the nerves in your body.

The harder and faster you worked on him, the more pressure he applied to your soaked and tingling core, pushing you to your peak.

In another effort to bring him to his climax, you gripped the base of his throbbing cock with one hand and pumped in time with the movement of your head, causing Anders to groan against you. He gave a broad lick over your folds and turned his focus to your clit, adding two fingers inside you to expertly massage your g-spot.

The action tipped you over, your walls tightening and squeezing his fingers and you gave a muffled scream, ever so slightly loosening your lips around his engorged head, but not your grip on the base of him.

You felt him pulse into your mouth with three spurts just as you landed from your incredible high and you swallowed his thick cum appreciatively.

Both of you lay panting for a minute before Anders sat up and spun around, collapsing down beside you with a heavy sigh. His vibrant blue eyes stared into you with unspoken praise and you returned his look of fulfilment with a sated smile.

“Do you want breakfast?” you asked, having caught your breath and quite a hunger from all the calories you had burned since your last meal.

“No, I just ate,” Anders replied with a chuckle and he gave your bum a light smack.

“At least make me a coffee,” you requested.

“I can do that.” He gave you a long and slow kiss, making your stomach flutter and you hopeful that mornings like this could happen more often. When he pulled away from you his dimpled smile had you grinning just as it always did.

“Maybe I’ll cook you some bacon,” he said with wiggling eyebrows, “naked,” which made you grin even more.

“Just be careful you don’t burn anything...” you playfully warned.

[astrhae]

hi!! i love your 101 ways to propose series, if you're still taking prompts for that, what about tony overhearing steve practicing his proposal speech? ty!

hi! 💛 i plan on one day maybe fulfilling that 101 number, so i am always taking prompts for it :D also i posted this on ao3 and forgot to answer your ask but here you go i hope you enjoy this serving of these two idiots with paper rings

overheard your heartbeat (calling me yours)

5.7k words, fluff and angst, tw: hospitalisations, some explosions

--------------

“If you don’t want to go out, then stop making plans!” Tony yells at Steve, pulling the tie off his own neck and tossing it on the bedroom floor.

“I do, it’s just – ”

“Did a dinosaur attack Central Park?” he huffs frustratedly, pushing past his boyfriend. 

He can’t do this, not right now. 

All that would do was lead to a shouting match.

They’d agreed a few years ago to never do these sorts of talks while they were both tired, and Tony was tired.

A shitty week on top of a shitty month.

He storms down the stairs of the Avengers Compound bare feet thumping loudly over the soft carpet Natasha had chosen. After Ultron and after they had started tracking down Bucky Barnes amidst the wreckage of the world, turning the Compound into a home together had helped soothe the tensions in the team.

The distance from the city was particularly helpful, giving them peace from the constant scrutiny of the press and the public. 

Today, with all the mess from the Secretary of Defense pushing for more oversight and Stark Industries’ clean energy contracts facing hold up, Tony is especially glad for that peace.

Today was also meant to be his evening out with Steve, but like all of their dates in the past month, Steve had cancelled.

Usually, the absence of Tony and Steve going out publicly for longer than a stretch of two weeks was enough to drive the press to intense speculation, as three years of their on-and-off dating had turned into something steadier.

Now – Tony thinks with no small amount of bitterness – at least he has some privacy in watching his relationship dwindle.

Has Steve finally grown tired of Tony?

They still do their breakfasts together, the smiley face drawn in blueberry sauce all over Tony’s face still cheeky as ever, accompanied by a heart of whip cream next to it. At night Steve will murmur a hot ‘I love you’ between Tony’s shoulderblades, hands warm around his waist as kisses are pressed down his spine.

When Tony is forced to work in the city, Steve will arrive right around lunch time by the Tower, motorbike ready to whisk Tony away for a short, blissful break from the stuffy old men in the boardrooms.

And when Tony kisses Steve after a mission, Steve still grins against the kiss, unable to hide the clear happiness from Tony’s mere presence.

But.

The question remained: why did Steve arrange dates only to cancel at the last minute?

The excuses ranged from a very valid emergency preventing an attack on the city to a more questionable ‘Sam’s niece is having a birthday party and I didn’t want to disappoint her’.

There were also the very strange purchases: what did Steve need a thousand roses for last week? 

Not that Tony stalked any of the Avengers – JARVIS only started flagging the out-of-habit purchases after Clint had placed the down payment for a million-dollar bouncy castle.

So. A shitty week on top of a shitty month on top of a rollercoaster life.

His boyfriend-slash-Captain-slash-bane-of-his-life was acting strangely, and he pauses in the middle of the stairs to recenter himself, chest throbbing from the exertion. 

The reflection that stares back at him from the dark glass windows lining the walls is a sad one: his dress shirt askew, graying hair a mess from the countless times he’d run his hand annoyedly through it today, and eye bags heavy as sleepness nights of fear and regret took its toll.

Creeping out from between his unbuttoned collar are the old scars from the reactor, branching out to curl over his collarbone in a grotesque pattern.

Is it any wonder Steve doesn’t want to go out with this mess?

Sliding silently down the railing, he sits heavily on the steps, shoving a fist between his teeth to stop his ragged breaths from becoming sobs.

Why can't he catch a break?

He's just so fucking tired and hungry, he wants a hug from his boyfriend and a warm dinner. 

What he doesn't want is for Steve to break up with him.

The thought is enough to make him feel sick, stomach balking at the mention of food. 

He's about to leave for the safety of his labs when he hears a woman's voice come through their open bedroom door.

"Steve, did you do it?"

Tony's heart drops. That's Sharon. 

His cousin went on one date with Steve way back when New York was still in ruins, and while Tony knows she had been among the people scheming to get Steve and Tony together, it's hard not to have a dreadful suspicion after the string of cancelled dates.

"No," Steve's reply comes, "I couldn't do it."

Creeping back up the stairs, Tony refuses to pause and think about how his life's been reduced to this: sneaking through the hallways to eavesdrop on his boyfriend.

Supposed boyfriend, an insidious part of his mind corrects.

"Steve, Tony loves you so much, he's definitely going to say yes."

The yellow light spilling out of their bedroom is almost eerie, and he realises Sharon's words are true. 

If Steve would be happier with her, Tony would let him go.

His heart clenches fiercely, painfully. 

Thankful the arc reactor's been removed, Tony presses hard against the mess of scars there, rubbing circles to do something with the pressure building up hopelessly in his chest.

"I just want it to be perfect. I can't propose when he's so tired he's about to collapse on his feet." Wait, what? "But I think I made a mess of everything."

Steve's sigh is loud, which is good because it covers the small, strangled noise Tony lets out.

A proposal?

The whiplash of surprise and horror roots him to the spot.

Is Steve planning a proposal to Sharon? Had Tony really made Steve so unhappy to push Steve into a relationship so covert? Do any of the other Avengers know about this? He's too fucking tired and heartsick to figure things out, his mind playing in agonising detail the past month.

The way Steve's smiles seemed nervous, uneasy, uncomfortable. How Steve's hand sometimes shook when he reached across the breakfast table to hold Tony's hand, and how quickly Steve pulled away afterwards. 

"Okay," Sharon's voice comes again, "try reading your speech to me."

"You'll laugh," Steve miserably says.

"Who could ever laugh to a Captain America speech?"

"I should start with an apology, shouldn't I? He thinks I don't want to go out anymore."

Christ, Steve sounds so upset that Tony's instinct to comfort him rears up above his own discomfort. 

Had Tony not convinced Steve enough that he loves him?

Sharon clicks her tongue over the call. "It isn't my fault that you can apparently fight wars but can't propose to the love of your life."

Fucking hell, Tony can't just stand here while Steve proposes to someone else, can't just listen to his home crumbling all around him.

Nobody ever said Tony wasn't a masochist, though, and a large part of him wants to know where he failed, where he'd gone so wrong to drive Steve so far away from him like this.

Taking a deep breath, Steve – was that the sound of paper being unfolded? Had Steve actually written the speech down? – clears his throat.

“Tony, I’ve been trying to propose to you for the past month but you just keep getting less happy and more stressed? Does that work?” Steve's voice lilts up doubtfully. “Or just, I'm sorry I've been a horrible boyfriend this past month, I've been nervous because I have something to ask you?”

Wait.

What?

Something catches at the back of Tony's throat, and he's frozen in the dark hallway, staring at the light of their bedroom, struggling to breathe. 

Steve sounds so sincere, so desperate to do this properly that Tony feels an echoing rawness crawl up his throat. His confusion stings against his exhaustion, sluggish mind counting the possibilities slowly.

"The second one works better, I think," Sharon answers.

"Right." And suddenly the words coming out in Steve's voice are impossible, because Tony cannot possibly be standing here listening to his boyfriend – soon to be fiance? – practice a proposal for him. 

His day has been too much of a rollercoaster for him to be able to handle this.

Yet, he continues to stand transfixed as Steve's feet scuffle against the carpet of their room, a familiar sound from all the nights he's had to watch Steve pace nervously across its length, anxious for news about a mission.

“Honey – no, that’s not right. Tony," Steve says into the call, and Tony's heart is beating too loud in his ears, "you’re the most important man in my life. No. That sounds like a damn romcom.” Another loud, frustrated sigh. “Okay what about this – we haven’t been at our best lately, but we’ve gone through a hell lot worse, and even in my worst moments, you knew how to bring out the best in me. No? Tony’s going to hate it, isn't he?”

Hate it?

Tony can’t even breathe.

Steve wants to marry him.

Him and not anyone else.

"No," Sharon empathically insists. "He's probably going to stare at you, and then kiss you silly."

Tony makes a note to send her the biggest, most overblown fruit basket. 

With flowers. And a giant bunny.

“You said everything special about me came from a bottle. That might be true, but everything happy about me came from you,” Steve tries another sentence, the words coming out slow, measured, "I always thought marriage would mean a faceless lady and a picket fence, until I met you and realised it would mean your grumpiness when I wake up too early, my stubbornness making us fight, and your bot children pestering us until we kiss again. An adventure. A promise to come home. To kiss the most wonderful man in the world good night every night - "

And Tony can't help it. 

All the stress of the past month, the worry, the fear, the doubt – the bone aching tiredness – it rises up as relief and awe and disbelief replaces them.

He clamps his hands over his mouth, but it's too late.

He lets out a pained sound, a wounded animal jerking away from the light because it's too much.

Steve's love burns too hot across his chest, and he really can't breathe, he's heaving, lungs unable to expand because god, how had Tony not noticed his own boyfriend's worries?

Does Steve not know how much Tony loves him?

Was Tony so self-absorbed that he hadn't noticed Steve needing him?

Would someone like that even make a good husband for Steve?

Curling away from the word 'husband', he closes his eyes shut against the tears threatening to spill there, and suddenly he hears a clatter coming from their room. 

His heart stutters again, panicked that something might've happened to Steve, but there's only a quick, "Sharon, I need to go," before warm hands fall on his shoulders, and blue, blue eyes crowd his vision as the hallway lights turn on.

"Hey," Steve moves to cup the back of Tony's head, rubbing small circles at the base of his neck, "what's wrong, Tony?"

Tony shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak.

The furrow between Steve's brows deepen. Gently, Steve takes Tony's hand, thumb rubbing away the bitemarks there from when Tony had shoved his fist between his teeth. "Did you hear my call earlier?"

He should say yes. 

The truth. 

Except, if Steve is really afraid that Tony will refuse marriage, shouldn't it be Tony's turn for once to soothe Steve's fears? 

Later, he can blame his tiredness for this harebrained plan.

Now, he just needs time to make a proper ring.

"No," Tony says, fighting his hardest to keep his smile from trembling. "I miss you," he gives another truth instead, "I – can we not fight?"

"Of course," Steve nods quickly. This man would give Tony the universe if he asked for it.

Tony doesn't need the universe.

"Hold me?" he asks.

Steve does.

---------------------

The following morning, Tony is surprised to wake up with Steve's shirtless chest still pressed against his back. He peeks at the alarm clock on the bedside, its red letters reading out 09:43.

"Hey, sunshine," Steve laughs when Tony pulls the blanket over his head to shut out the light from their windows.

It should be a normal Saturday morning, they have no emergency missions or unavoidable meetings, so why hasn't Steve gone for the usual morning run yet? His mind scrambles to figure out why it isn't –

Oh.

Right.

Steve wants to marry Tony. 

And doesn't know that Tony wants to marry Steve right back.

"Don't you have places to be?" Tony prods, voice muffled by the blankets. His plan of secretly designing a ring won't get anywhere if today's Steve is the affectionate kind.

"I have places to be and places I want to be," Steve answers, pressing his cold feet against Tony's thighs, making him yelp to get away.

"You sure you don't have to make sure Clint isn't stuck in the dumpsters somewhere?"

Next to him, he feels Steve stiffen, amusement replaced by a thoughtful sombreness. "Look, if you're still upset about last night, I'm sorry I cancelled our date." Steve rests his chin on Tony's shoulder, leaning up to meet his eyes apologetically. "Pepper called to tell me you had a shitty day yesterday, and I thought staying in would be a better rest for you. But I shouldn't have assumed."

A proposal would definitely have made my day better, Tony thinks. 

And he realises that's what he'll start his proposal with. Because Steve didn't make Tony's day better, he made Tony's life a thousand times better.

"Staying in with you sounds perfect," he replies carefully. How does he assure Steve that he loves him without blurting out 'be my husband'? "Yesterday was just such a clusterfuck, I was really looking forward to dinner with you."

Steve ducks his head to press a kiss behind Tony's ear. "How about I make it up with some breakfast together?"

The ring, Tony decides, can wait.

Marriage – as scary as it can be – boils down to a promise. Together.

When put like that, Tony's harebrained plan of showing Steve how much he loves him becomes so much simpler.

"You make the pancakes, I make the coffee?" he shifts around to face Steve. "Or better yet," he presses his own kiss between Steve's brows, "we skip breakfast and keep doing what we're doing."

"And what are we doing?"

The soft huff of fondness that Steve lets out is so different from his frustrated sighs last night, and Tony knows he's made the right decision. Trying to sneak away now would do little to help, so he takes advantage in the best way he can.

"This," Tony burrows his way into Steve's chest, until his cheeks press against the heartbeat there, until all his arms can touch is the vast expanse of Steve's back, holding them closer than close.

"Alright."

"I love you."

A beat of silence.

"I love you, too," the rumbling of Steve's chest ricochets in Tony's ear. "You make me really, really happy."

Nope. No. No matter how brightly Steve's words flare through him, Tony is going to be the one who proposes so that Steve will forever have no doubts about how much Tony wants him.

"Coffee would make me really, really happy too," he steers the topic into safer waters. 

"No coffee 'til you let me go," Steve points out reasonably, because none of the bots can be trusted to make a decent cup of coffee. 

"Worth it," Tony wraps his arms tighter around his boyfriend.

He can feel Steve smile into his hair.

And he feels his own smile above Steve's heart.

---------------------  

One week later – after much finesse with sneaking around and peppering Steve with affectionate gestures as a distraction – Tony finishes the ring.

He's had JARVIS save the recording of Steve's phone call with Sharon in a very, very private server, and he's put together the fanciest fruit basket to give to her after Steve says yes.

All he needs to do is get through this battle so he can suit up properly to take his soon-to-be fiance on a private date. 

The Iron Man gauntlet rolls up his sleeve as he types commands rapidly into the helicarrier's mainframe, trying to stop or at least delay the sabotage threatening to send the ship into a fiery ball of flames falling down into the depths of the Atlantic below them.

His boots keep him steady when the ship shakes from another explosion, and he's pleased by his decision to play with nanotech. 

Without needing to accomodate for the arc reactor that's been removed from his chest, he's had greater flexibility in the armor design and material. If this field test proves successful, he'll incorporate nanobots into the other Avengers' suits.

This pesky problem first, though.

"How much longer, Iron Man?" Steve asks through the comms, followed by a grunt that signals he's taken out another one of the drones firing at the helicarrier. 

AIM is definitely up there on Tony's shitlist for putting Steve in danger.

"Five minutes," he continues undistracted.

"All civilians and crew evacuated. Avengers at checkpoints for evacuation."

In other words, get on it, Tony. But JARVIS keeps getting firewalled from accessing the helicarrier's systems, and if Tony stops fighting the flashing red code for even a second, it'll trigger all the attacking drones inside the ship to blow.

He has to be the last Avenger to leave. Five minutes might not be enough.

Without the others keeping the drones at bay, he calculates two minutes before the drones converge on his location.

"Cap," he does a few more calculations, "evacuate Avengers. Clear the ship."

"That door won't protect you from the drones, Tony," Steve breaks protocol by calling his name. The first sign that Tony's plan is going to crack, because Steve won't evacuate if Tony isn't evacuating too.

"I have my armor."

"I'm coming to you. Avengers, head for the quinjet."

There's a series of protests over the comms that Tony ignores because the end result is always Steve's orders being followed. He spells out a few commands in rapid fire, triggering override commands through the chains of drones, locking himself in a limited maneuver that requires sacrifice of the entire front hull of the ship.

His new priority is to drive the drones as far away from the control room he's in to give the distance he needs for a fair chance at getting out alive.

"Fuck," Tony curses. The red flashing letters return with a countdown to detonation that he really doesn't want Steve to see.

Not much he can do – he hears Steve's footsteps thumping heavily on the metal floors and silently commands his helmet to retreat, nanobots reacting to his thoughts.

"Tony." It's unfair how Steve doesn't even sound winded from all the fighting. "What can I do?"

"Get out of here." Life liked laughing at him, and it's ironic that after a month spent worrying about Steve cancelling dates, Tony has to cancel their next date tonight.

"I'm not leaving you."

"Trust me," Tony begs him, because if Steve doesn't leave, he'll have to make a choice he doesn't want. 

There was a time when Tony was ready to sacrifice his life for the world, but now at the cusp of starting a new part of his life, his affection for Steve has made him more selfish, more desperate to stay alive, to spend a thousand tomorrows together with the man.

He should have married Steve years ago, should have asked for a kiss before shawarma, should have stopped wasting time.

The armor stands small chance of protecting Tony from an explosion this big, this close. The underarmor beneath it stands an even smaller chance. 

Tony's faced worse odds than that before, though, and if the choice is between Steve dying or not, then it isn't really a choice, is it?

His fingers hesitate over the 'Enter' key.

The only choice is how he can do this the most painlessly for Steve in case the odds don't work in Tony's favor. 

Because going down in a plane into an icy sea was among Steve's worst nightmares, and seeing Tony go down in another one would be – well.

He presses the key.

Three minutes is not enough time to run to the last quinjet.

But if he makes himself a target for the drones while he sends Steve away, that's enough time to reduce possible casualties to just one.

New evacuation plans, Tony really has to draft them up for the next helicarrier. Or better yet, get rid of these damned things entirely.

"Tony," Steve says again, now with an edge to his voice. "What's the plan?"

First, distract Steve. Second, apologise. Third, hold his breath. 

He's pretty sure that plan isn't what Steve was hoping for, but it's the only plan that Tony has which can selfishly protect everyone he loves.

"For the record, I would've said yes," Tony finally turns away from the screen. 

There's nothing more he can do to stop this. 

He'd much rather spend these last minutes taking in every detail about Steve: the ruffled blond hair covered by the helmet, the small cut on his exposed cheek – someone has to bandage that, supersoldier or not, pain was still pain – the soot-covered shield held aloft and the bright white star on the uniform's chest that reflects the light of the new reactor on Tony's own chest.

The small crow's feet at the corners of Steve's eyes: perfect marble marred by happiness. The only marks on Steve's self-repairing body.

And the frown of confusion that used to annoy Tony.

That now looks heartbreakingly endearing.

"What?" Steve struggles to put together all the pieces.

Tony gives him the missing piece with no small amount of guilt. Closing the space between them, he lets his bare hands take Steve's gloved ones. "Yes, to kissing the most wonderful man in the world good night every night."

Steve's mouth is a perfectly shaped 'o'.

"Tony - "

"I wish I could promise to come home this time," he feels the armor crawl back down his arm, continuing unnoticed over Steve's red gloves, then up the blue uniform as Tony fights to keep Steve's gaze firmly fixed on him. 

The last eyes Tony might get to see, and he wants to be lost in them. 

He hates all the drama that comes with last words - hates how last words keep haunting him - but he's a futurist. Which means he's thought of what he'd say. 

In the end, his entire life boils down a few simple things: "Give Rhodey and Pep and the rest of the team my thanks for putting up with me."

Steve's eyes widen the tiniest bit, pupils large in dawning fear, hiding more of that precious blue. 

It's when Steve tries to pull away from Tony's grip that he realises the trap Tony has baited him into.

"Stop this," the hint of betrayal, anger, anguish in Steve's voice is enough to make Tony regret it, but not enough to make him undo it. "I'll survive without the suit," Steve tries to claw the thick layers of nanobots off his arm, "please, don't make me – "

Step two: apologise. Or at least, do his best to keep Steve from drowning in guilt and what ifs.

"This is my choice," Tony lifts his hand to Steve's cheek, brushing away the tear that's fallen there in Steve's frustration. "It's not your fault." 

He doesn't think he can kiss Steve goodbye, because he doesn't know if he'll be strong enough to let go afterwards.

Thirty seconds, the clock in his head ticks down dreadfully.

"Please, Tony, darling," Steve clings onto Tony's hand, desperate, voice breaking. A sea of grief and lost futures crashing against Tony's cliffs of stubborness. "I love you, don't – "

"JARVIS," Tony has to say this out loud, has to know that the man he would've married will be alright, regardless of whether he survives the fall into the ocean, regardless of whether he gets to hold him again, "take care of him for me."

The helmet forms, closing shut with a click that muffles Steve's shouted protests, and in the end the last face Tony sees is his own – reflected in awkward angles across the red and gold face plate.

All of Steve's overrides fail.

The armor flies Steve away, crashing carelessly through walls to find the most efficient way out of this ticking time bomb.

Ten seconds.

Time for one final request. He adjusts the earpiece he's wearing. 

"J, play that recording?"

It plays without any witty comment from his faithful AI, a short clip that JARVIS must have chosen deliberately because it ends just as the floor under Tony's feet disappear, the helicarrier breaking apart, dropping from the sky.

He clings to what he can – if he slows down his fall, he has a better chance at seeing his family again – and he clings to the voice in his ear, hoping against hope.

Everything happy about me came from you.  

The water swallows him.

---------------------  

He doesn't wake up to beeping.

He wakes up to angry mutterings that drown out the steady beeps.

"Tony, I swear to god if you make me watch you fall one more time, I'm going to chain you to bed. And the longer you take to wake up the longer I'm going to chain you," Steve's voice cuts off with a wet sniff, and there's a warm hand brushing Tony's hair from his face. "Please wake up. You can't die before I marry you."

Losing the struggle to open his eyes, Tony slips for a moment back into the dark nothingness. 

Some time must have passed because the next time he's aware of anything other than darkness, the air's gotten colder, and Steve now sounds less angry, more tired.

"It's been two hundred hours since I fished you out, Tony. DUM-E's starting to misbehave without you, and I – I found your ring, you idiot. You left it right there in your lab and your bots tried to throw it away because it made me – it made me." 

The fingers that curl around his wrist, right on top of his pulse, feel damp. Tony picks up the fight to open his eyes, because Steve crying is unacceptable. 

"JARVIS told me about your recording, and we really were a pair of fools, weren't we?"

Warm lips press against his temple, chasing away the cold for a moment.

"The doctors say reading to you might help. And since you've heard half of it already, I thought the other half might give you a reason to - just. A reason," Steve stops as his voice trembles too much. 

A shaky breath, its hot, stuttered puffs falling over Tony's cheeks.

"Wake up, please."

Because his eyes aren't cooperating, Tony decides to try his hand. 

Move, he commands his rebellious thumb. 

Nothing. 

Ugh.

Paper crinkles near Tony's ear, making him pause his attempts. 

Steve clears his throat, speaking in quieter, soothing tones. There's a muffled quality to the words, like Steve is doing his best to keep himself from shattering - and Tony certainly feels like shattering because he can't lie here listening as Steve hurts himself.

"I always thought marriage would mean a faceless lady and a picket fence, until I met you and realised it would mean your grumpiness when I wake up too early, my stubbornness making us fight, and your bot children pestering us until we kiss again. An adventure. A promise to come home. To kiss the most wonderful man in the world good night every night."

That last sentence is punctuated with another kiss, this time lingering over the top of Tony's knuckles.

"I can't promise to be perfect. Can only promise to try my best. And I know you also worry about hurting me, but between the two of us, you can always build us both new hearts and I can heal enough hurts for any broken feelings."

Oh god, Tony wants so much to be properly awake to hear this, to be able to hold Steve and tell him yes, yes a thousand million times yes.

"You make the future worth dreaming of, Tony. You make me – your bedhead in the morning, and your wit and how you hate pineapples – I can picture a thousand fights with you and a thousand nights in bed making you see the stars to get you to forgive me. There isn't a future where I'm not holding your hand, where you're not there as proof that every day is worth fighting for, when it means another morning seeing your smile and another night listening to your heart."

Wake up, Tony commands himself. 

He doesn't care about the pain, doesn't care about anything else except squeezing Steve's hand back.

He can hear Steve's hand shake, the paper wobbling with it, and he aches to reach out.

"And then," Steve says, leg bouncing against what must be the medical wing's bed, "I'd get down on one knee, and you'd call me a sap, but that wouldn't matter because we all know you like it."

For a few moments, Tony can only hear shuddering breaths over the beeping of the machines, unsteady and tired and God, Steve.

"They can't tell me when you'll wake up. They can't - I survived the ocean before," there's a string of muffled curses. "You should've let me - you shouldn't have - I can't survive this without you."

Tony continues forcing his own weariness away. Sleep was useless. He needs -

Oh! Did his toe just move?

"I miss your smile," Steve murmurs, and there's the scraping of plastic against bare tile.

No, no, no. 

He can't let Steve leave like that.

The man proposed. He can't let something as big as that slide because of an inconvenient waking up problem.

Steve's hand is still in his, and Tony squeezes.

He hears a sharp inhale.

"Tony?"

One eyelid opens first – the left one – but the lights forces it to close again, Tony cringing away – hey! He can move his face again.

"Oh my god," Steve breathes out, and when Tony tries the other eyelid, the lights have been dimmed so low it no longer hurts to open both at once.

He's greeted by the sight of Steve stooping over him, blurry face swimming above his own as Tony squints happily at it.

Pleasantly surprised that he isn't hooked to a respirator, he lets Steve feed him an ice cube to help with the dryness of his mouth.

"Tony."

From Steve's lips, his name is half prayer, half praise, and a hundred percent admonishment.

None of that really matters right now.

"You didn't finish," Tony pushes the words past his scratchy throat, past the hazy weightlessness.

"Oh," Steve sits back down in the plastic chair. "I – you heard."

"You going to make an honest man out of me, soldier?" he squeezes Steve's hand again, weak but reassuring.

They've wasted enough time dancing around the topic.

There are bags under Steve's eyes, and the old jacket Steve is wearing – is that Tony's MIT hoodie? – has its strings fraying at the edges, and yet when he smiles, tired eyes lighting up just for Tony, he's the most beautiful man Tony knows.

"Tony," this time his name sounds loved, Steve's rumbling voice curling around the 'o' and rising up with the 'y'. "Marry me, please?"

Is it even a question?

"Yes." 

"Yes?" Steve repeats.

With a sly smile, Tony burrows further into the thick blanket covering him. "You know how much I love it when you ask so nicely."

Steve ducks his head, cheeks reddening. "You're the worst."

"I thought I was the best?"

"I'm calling the doctor," Steve threatens.

Considering the full IV bag and the buzz of happy painlessness, Tony thinks they can enjoy the moment for a few more minutes.

"Don't you dare," he threatens right back, although his wheezy voice gives it little authority. "If you do, you're not getting custody over the bot kids."

Steve's laugh warms him up more than any blanket could.

"The others then, at least," he bargains with Tony. "It's been nearly ten days, and they – we watched you die three times on the way here."

Oh. "Steve," Tony says, because there isn't anything he can offer except proof that he's here. "I'm sorry."

Shoulders hunched, Steve shakes his head. "Don't ever do that again, you hear me?"

"I'll be sure to put it in the vows," Tony promises easily.

Steve closes his eyes for a long moment, smile fond. "I love you."

Tangling their fingers together, Tony blames it on the painkillers when he giggles. "Do I get a ring to show off to the family?"

Steve casts around the room for an object, eyes landing on the crinkled piece of paper lying on top of the beside table cluttered with medical supplies. 

The speech, Tony's slower-than-usual mind supplies. 

Deftly folding it up into a thin strip, Steve carefully loops it around Tony's left ring finger, mindful of the IV needles stuck in Tony's arm, and tucks the ends together to make a paper ring.

"There," Steve bends to press a kiss where paper meets skin, "my handsome fiance."

Tony looks down at it.

The way the paper has been folded makes it so that the words 'come home' loop around the very top.

He thinks of how Rhodey will cook chicken soup for the next month and how Natasha will sing him lullabies while burning AIM from inside out.

He thinks of Bruce sneaking him lab reports to calm down his boredom and Pepper delivering DUM-E's drawings of them all.

He thinks of a future spent waking up to that smile of Steve's, and a lifetime ahead spent kissing it brighter.

Of a thousand days tasting its sun, and a thousand more learning its every angle, and another thousand to let it mark his skin, to wash all their grief away.

Well.

There's nothing wrong with starting a little early, is there?

He tugs Steve in for another kiss.

And again.

And again.

---------------------

After all, practice makes perfect.

And Tony feels perfectly home.